James Clemens - Book 5 of the Banned and the Banished saga - Wit’ch Star

 
Seated on the Rosethorn Throne, Elena studied the riddle be-fore her. The small 
stranger, dressed in a patchwork of silks and linens, appeared just a boy with 
his smooth and unlined face—but he was clearly no youngster. His manner was too 
calm under the gazes of those gathered in the Great Hall. His eyes glinted with 
sarcastic amusement, bitter and road-worn. And the set of his lips, shadowing a 
smile, remained both hard and cold.
Elena felt a twinge of unease near the man, despite his illusion of innocence.
The stranger dropped to one knee before her, sweeping off his foppish hat. 
Scores of bells—tin, silver, gold, and copper, sewn throughout his 
clothes—jangled brightly.
A taller figure stepped to the tiny man’s side—Prince Tylamon Royson, lord of 
Castle Mryl to the north. The prince-turned-pirate had forgone his usual finery 
and wore scuffed boots and a salt-scarred black cloak. His cheeks were ruddy, 
and his sandy hair was unkempt. He had arrived at the island’s docks with the 
rising sun, requesting immediate audience with Elena and the war council.
The prince bowed to one knee, then motioned to the stranger. “May I present 
Harlequin Quail? He has come far, with news you should hear.”
Elena motioned for them both to stand. “Rise, Lord Tyrus. Be welcome.” She 
studied the newcomer as he rose to his feet amid another chorus of jingling. The 
man had indeed come from afar. His face was oddly complexioned: a paleness that 
bordered on blue, as if he were forever suffocating. But it was the hue of his 
eyes that was the most striking—a shining gold, full of a wry slyness.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you so early on this summer morning,” Lord Tyrus 
intoned formally, straightening his disheveled cloak as if noticing for the 
first time his sorry state.
Er’ril, Elena’s liegeman and husband, spoke from his station beside the throne. 
“What is this urgency, Lord Tyrus? We have no time for fools and jesters.”
Elena did not have to glance to the side to know the Standi plainsman wore his 
usual hard scowl. She had seen it often enough over the last two moons as sour 
tidings had been flowing into Alasea: supply chains to the island cut off by 
monsters and strange weather; townships struck by fires and plagues; ill-shaped 
beasts roaming the countryside. But the worst tidings struck closer to home.
Elementals, those rare folk tuned to the Land’s energy, were succumbing to some 
dread malaise. The mer’ai were losing their sea sense and their link to their 
dragons; the elv’in ships could not fly as high or far; and now Nee’lahn 
reported that the voice of her lute was growing weaker as the tree spirit faded 
inside. Clearly whatever damage had been inflicted upon the Land by the 
Weirgates was continuing its onslaught. Elemental magicks waned as if from a 
bleeding wound.
As a consequence, the press of dwindling time weighed upon them all. If they 
were to act against the Gul’gotha, it must be soon—before their own forces 
weakened further, before the gifts of the Land faded completely away. But their 
armies were spread wide. As matters stood, the campaign against the Dark Lord’s 
stronghold, the volcanic Blackhall, could begin no sooner than next spring. 
Er’ril said it would take until midwinter to position all their armies; and an 
assault upon the island then, when the northern seas were beset with savage 
storms, would give the advantage to Blackhall.
So spring at the earliest, when the winter storms died away. Elena had begun to 
doubt whether they’d be ready even then. So much was still unknown. Tol’chuk had 
yet to return from his own lands; gone these past two moons with Fardale and a 
handful of others, he sought to question his og’re elders about the link between 
heartstone and ebon’stone. Many of the elv’in scoutships had not returned from 
reconnaissance over Blackhall. The d’warf army, led by Wennar, had sent crows 
with news that their forces yet gathered near Penryn. The d’warf captain wanted 
more time to rally his people. But time was short for all of them. And now this 
urgent news from afar.
Lord Tyrus turned to his companion. “Harlequin, tell them what you’ve learned.”
The tiny figure nodded. “I come with tidings both bright and grim.” A coin 
appeared in his hand as if conjured from nothing. With the flick of a wrist, he 
tossed it high into the air. Torchlight glinted off gold.
Elena’s gaze tracked the coin’s flight as it danced among the rafters, then 
fell. She startled back on her throne upon finding the strange man now 
toe-to-toe before her, leaning in. He had crossed the distance in a heartbeat, 
silent despite the hundred bells he wore.
Even Er’ril was caught by surprise. With a roar, he swept out his sword and 
bared it between queen and jester. “What trick is this?”
As answer, the man caught the falling coin in an outstretched palm, winked 
salaciously at Elena, then backed down the two steps, again jangling with a 
chorus of bells.
Lord Tyrus spoke up, a cold smile on his face. “Be not fooled by Harlequin’s 
motley appearance. For these past ten winters, he has been my master spy, in 
service to the Pirate Guild of Port Rawl. There are no better eyes and ears to 
sneak upon others unaware.”
Elena straightened in her seat. “So it would seem.”
Er’ril pulled back his sword but did not sheathe it. “Enough tricks. If he comes 
with information, let’s hear it.”
“As the iron man asks, so it shall be.” Harlequin held up his gold coin to the 
flash of torchlight. “First the bright news. You’ve cut the Black Heart a deeper 
wound than even you suspect by the destruction of his black statues. He’s lost 
his precious d’warf army and is left with only men and monsters to defend his 
volcanic lair.”
Tyrus interrupted. “Harlequin has spent the last half winter scouting the edges 
of Blackhall. He’s prepared charts and logs of the Dark Lord’s forces and 
strengths.”
“How did he come by these?” Er’ril grumbled.
Harlequin stared brazenly back. “From under the nose of the Dark Lord’s own 
lieutenant. A brother of yours, is he not?”
Elena glanced to Er’ril and saw the anger in his eye.
“He is not my brother,” her liegeman said coldly.
Elena spoke into the tension. “You were inside Blackhall itself?”
Harlequin’s mask of amusement cracked. Elena spotted a glimpse of something 
pained and darker beyond. “Aye,” he whispered. “I’ve walked its monstrous halls 
and shadowed rooms—and pray I never do so again.”
Elena leaned forward. “And you mentioned grim news, Master Quail?”
“Grim news indeed.” Harlequin lifted his arm and opened the fingers that had 
clenched around the gold coin. Upon his palm now rested a lump i o of coal. “If 
you wish to defeat the Black Heart, it must be done by Midsummer Eve.”
Elena frowned. “In one moon’s time?”
“Impossible,” Er’ril scoffed.
Harlequin fixed Elena with those strange gold eyes. “If you don’t stop the Black 
Beast by the next full moon, you will all be dead.”
Meric ran the length of the Stormwing. His feet flew across the fa-miliar 
planks, hurdling balustrades and leaping decks. His eyes remained fixed to the 
skies. Through the morning mists, a dark speck was visible high overhead, 
plummeting gracelessly out of the sky. It was one of the elv’in scoutships, 
returning from the lands and seas around the volcanic island of Blackhall.
Something was wrong.
Reaching the prow of his own ship, Meric lifted both arms and cast out his 
powers. A surge of energy billowed through his form and into the sky, racing 
upward to flow into the empty well that was the other’s boat’s iron keel. Meric 
fed his power, but the plummeting ship continued its dive toward the waters 
around A’loa Glen.
As he fought the inevitable, Meric felt the weight of the other ship upon his 
own shoulders. He was driven to one knee as the Stormwing, drained of its own 
magickal energies, began to drift lower toward the docks.
Gasping in his exertions, Meric refused to relent. Mother above, help me!
He now saw with two sets of eyes: a pair looking up and a pair looking down. 
Linked between the two ships, he felt the weak beat of the ship’s captain, 
Frelisha—a second cousin to his mother. She was barely alive. She must have 
drained all her energies to bring the ship even this close to home.
Below, Meric whispered into the wind. “Do not give up, Cousin.”
He was heard. Through his magickal connection, the last words of the captain 
reached him. “We are betrayed!”
With this final utterance, the heartbeat held between Meric’s upraised hands 
fluttered once more, then stopped forever.
“No!” Meric fell to his other knee.
A moment later, a huge shadow shot past the starboard rail. The explosion of 
wood and blast of water nearby were a distant echo. Meric slumped to his planks, 
head hanging. As alarm bells clanged along the
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docks and shouts rose in a chorus of panic, one word whispered from his lips: 
“Betrayed…”
Seated in the Grand Courtyard of the castle keep, Nee’lahn watched the children 
pause in their play as bells rang along the docks beyond the stone walls. Her 
own fingers stopped in midstrum on the strings of her lute.
Something had happened at the docks.
A few steps away, little Rodricko lowered his stick, a pretend sword, and 
glanced to his mother. His opponent in this playful sparring match— the 
Dre’rendi child Sheeshon—cocked her head at the noise, her own fake sword 
forgotten.
Nee’lahn rolled to her knees and swung her lute over a shoulder, bumping the 
thin trunk of the koa’kona behind her. Leaves shook overhead. The fragile 
sapling was thin-limbed and top-heavy with summer leaves—not unlike the male 
child that was its bonded twin.
“Rodricko, come away,” Nee’lahn said, reaching out to the boy. Rodricko was all 
limbs and awkwardness. Than’t the Mother, his initial growth surge is about 
over. Both tree and boy would grow into their forms more gradually from here.
“Sheeshon, you too,” Nee’lahn added. “Let’s see if the kitchens are ready with 
your porridge.”
As Nee’lahn straightened, she dug her bare toes into the rich loam at the base 
of the tree and took strength from the energy in the soil. She readied herself 
to enter the stone halls of the castle. Reluctant to leave, she drew the 
strength of root deep inside her.
Around them, the gardens of the Grand Courtyard were in the full bloom of 
summer. Tiny white flowers garlanded the ivy-encrusted walls. The dogwoods stood 
amid cloaks of fallen petals. Red berries dotted the trimmed bushes that lined 
the crushed white-gravel paths. Most glorious of all were the hundreds of 
rosebushes, newly planted last fall. They had blossomed into a riot of colors: 
blushing pinks, dusky purples, honeyed yellows. Even the sea breezes were given 
color and substance by their sweet fragrances.
But it was more than beauty that held her here, for only in this courtyard were 
her past, present, and future gathered in one place: the lute that held the 
heart of her own beloved, the sapling that sprang from the seed of her bonded, 
and the boy who represented all the hopes of the nyphai people.
Sighing, Nee’lahn tousled the mop of sun-bleached curls atop Ro-dricko’s head 
and took the boy’s hand. So much hope in such a little package.
Sheeshon reached to take Rodricko’s other hand, the webbed folds between the 
Dre’rendi girl’s fingers marking her as a link between the seafaring Bloodriders 
and the ocean-dwelling mer’ai. Rodricko joined hands with her. Over the past 
moons, the two children, alike in their uniqueness, had become all but 
inseparable.
“Let’s see if the kitchens are ready,” Nee’lahn said, turning.
She stepped away, but Rodricko seemed to have taken root in the soil. “Mama, 
what about the bud song? You promised I could try.”
Nee’lahn opened her mouth to object. She was anxious to learn what had arisen at 
the docks, but already the alarm bells were echoing away.
“You promised,” Rodricko repeated.
Nee’lahn frowned, then glanced to the tree. She had promised. It was indeed time 
he learned his own song, but she was hesitant, reluctant to let
Rodricko go.
“I’m old enough. And this night the moon is full!”
Nee’lahn found no way to object. Traditionally among the nyphai, the first full 
moon of summer was when the young bonded with their new trees, when babe and 
seed became woman and tree.
“Are you sure you’re ready, Rodricko?”
“He’s ready,” Sheeshon answered, her small eyes surprisingly certain. Nee’lahn 
had heard the child was rich in sea magicks, an ability to sense beyond the 
horizons to what’s to come. The rajor maga, it was termed by the Dre’rendi.
“Please, Mama,” Rodricko begged.
The dock bells had gone silent.
“You may try the bud song; then it’s off to the kitchens before the cook gets 
angry.”
Rodricko’s face brightened like a sun coming through the clouds. He turned to 
Sheeshon. “Come on. I have to get ready.”
Sheeshon, always the more sober child, frowned. “You must hurry, if we have to 
finish before the kitchen closes.”
Nee’lahn nodded. “Go ahead, but don’t be disappointed if you fail.
Maybe next summer…“
Rodricko nodded, though clearly deaf to her words. He crossed to the tree and 
knelt on limbs nearly as thin as the sapling’s branches. Now would be the moment 
when all the fates would either come together or fall into disarray, for 
Rodricko was the first male nyphai. Both sapling and boy were unique, the result 
of the union of Nee’lahn’s tree and the twisted Grim wraith Cecelia. Who knew if 
the ancient rites, songs, and patterns of growth would hold true here?
Nee’lahn held her breath.
Rodricko touched the tree’s bark, drawing a fingernail down through the thin 
outer coating. A droplet of sap flowed, and the sapling’s treesong rose up from 
its deep thrum and quested out for Rodricko. Nee’lahn listened with both ears 
and heart. The boy was either attuned to the song, or he would be rebuffed. She 
was not sure which she hoped. A part of her wanted him to fail. She had been 
given so little time with him, less than a single winter…
Rodricko used a rose thorn to prick a finger, drawing blood. He reached his 
wounded finger toward the flow of sap.
“Sing,” she whispered. “Let the tree hear your heart.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward her, his eyes shining with his fear. The boy 
sensed the weight of the moment.
Sing, she willed to him silently.
And he did. His lips parted, and as he exhaled, the sweetest notes flowed forth. 
His voice was so bright that the sun seemed to grow pale in comparison. The 
world grew dark around the edges, as if night had come early, but around the 
sapling, a pool of luminescence grew brighter and brighter.
In response, the sapling’s own song swelled, like a flower drawn to the sun. At 
first tentatively, then more fully, boy and sapling became transfixed in 
treesong.
At that moment, Nee’lahn knew the boy would succeed. Tears flowed down her 
cheeks with both relief and loss. There was no turning back. Nee’lahn could feel 
the surge of elemental magick from boy and tree, one feeding on the other, 
building until it was impossible to say where one began and the other ended.
Two songs became one.
Nee’lahn found herself on her knees without realizing she had moved. Treesong 
filled the world. She had never heard such a chorus before.
She craned up at the thin branches; she knew what would come next. Leaves began 
to shake as if from a strong breeze. Each branch tip throbbed with treesong and 
elemental energy. And still tree and boy sang in harmony, voices louder, 
strained, beautiful, expectant.
With nowhere else to go, the magick trapped in the tips of each branch had only 
one course left to follow.
From the end of each tiny branch, buds pushed from stems, growing
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from magick and blood: petaled expressions of the treesong brought to existence 
by the union of boy and sapling.
He—they—had done it.
A gasp escaped from Rodricko, both joy and pain.
Slowly the treesong faded, as if draining down a well, exhausted. The summer sun 
returned to the courtyard.
Rodricko turned, his small face shining with joy and pride. “I did it, Mama.” 
His voice was now deeper, richer, almost a man’s voice. But he was no man. She 
heard the lilt of magick behind his voice. He was nyphai. He turned back to his 
tree. “We are now one.”
Nee’lahn remained silent, her gaze fixed on the tree. What have we done? she 
thought silently. Sweet Mother, what have we done?
Hanging from the tips of each branch were indeed the buds of new union. They 
would open for the first time this evening with the rising of the summer’s first 
moon. But Rodricko’s flowers were not the bright violet of the nyphai, jewels 
among the greenery. Instead, from each tip hung buds the color of clotted blood, 
black and bruised—the same night shade as the Grim wraiths.
Nee’lahn covered her face and began to sob. “Mama,” Rodricko spoke at her side, 
“what’s wrong?”
Deep below the Grand Courtyard, Joach slouched along a narrow tunnel. It had 
taken him a full moon’s time to find this hidden path. Much of the secret tunnel 
system under the Edifice had fallen to ruin, destroyed during the awakening of 
Ragnar’k from his stony sleep. Joach remembered that day: his own harrowing 
escape from Greshym’s enthrallment, his flight with Brother Moris, the battle at 
the heart of the island. Though less than two winters had passed, it now seemed 
like ages. He was an old man, his youth stolen from him.
Joach rested, leaning heavily upon his stone staff, a length of petrified gray 
wood impregnated with green crystals. The end of the stave glowed with a sickly 
aether, lighting his way. It was the only bit of dark magick left in the dread 
thing.
His fingers tightened on the staff, sensing the feeble trickle of power 
remaining. He had struck a bad bargain with Greshym for this length of petrified 
wood. It had cost Joach his youth, leaving him a wrinkled and brittle version of 
himself. Standing now deep underground, Joach felt the weight of rock overhead 
press upon his thin shoulders. His heart pounded in his ears. It had taken him 
all morning to climb the long-hidden stair to reach here.
“Only a little way more,” he promised himself.
Fueled by determination, he continued, praying the chamber he sought was still 
intact. As he reached the tunnel’s end, he used the stump of his right wrist to 
shove aside a tangle of withered roots hanging across the threshold. They 
crumbled away at his touch.
He lifted his staff forward.
Beyond, a cavernous chamber opened.
Joach wheezed with relief, and limped past the threshold. Overhead, roots and 
fibrous stragglers hung like swamp moss, yellow and brittle. Rodricko’s thin 
sapling, above, had yet to send its young roots down into this cavernous tomb. 
Here death still reigned.
Joach found a certain solace in that gloomy realization. Beyond the castle 
walls, the summer days were too bright, too green, too full of rebirth. He 
preferred the shadows.
Exhausted, knees complaining, he advanced. The chamber floor was strewn with 
boulders and the moldering corpses of the dead. Tiny furred and scaled creatures 
scurried from his staff’s sickly light. Joach ignored the scavengers and lifted 
his staff. Old scars marked the walls, from the swaths of the balefire wielded 
by Shorkan and Greshym during the battle. They looked like some ancient writing 
in charcoal.
If only he could understand it…
Joach sighed. So much remained closed to him. He had spent the past two moons 
holed up in the libraries and nooks, poring over texts, scrolls, and 
manuscripts. If he ever hoped to regain his youth, he needed to understand the 
magick that had stolen it. But he was a mere apprentice to the Black Arts, far 
from true understanding. He had only managed to glean one clue: Ragnar’t.
Before joining with Kast, the dragon had slumbered in stone at the heart of the 
island for untold ages, growing rich with the elemental magick of the dream, 
imbuing the rocks and crystals here with its energies. Any hope of regaining his 
own youth lay in the mystery of the dreaming magick. Joach had lost his youth in 
the dream desert—his youth and one other thing.
He closed his eyes, again feeling the flow of blood across his hand, the 
slightest gasp in his ear. “Kesla,” he whispered out to the cavern of the dead. 
She too had been like Ragnar’k, a creature of dream.
If all his pain arose out of dream landscape, perhaps his cure lay there, i
too. This frail hope had finally driven him down into the bowels of the island.
He had a plan.
Using his staff as a crutch, Joach limped over bones and around boulders. Though 
Ragnar’k was long gone, the dragon had slept in this chamber for so long that 
every stone, every bit of broken crystal, had been imbued with its magick. Joach 
planned to tap this elemental power.
Like Greshym, Joach was a dreamweaver. But unlike the darkmage, Joach was also a 
dream sculptor, with the ability to craft substance out of dream. If Joach hoped 
to take on Greshym and steal back his youth, he would need to hone his skill. 
But to do that, he first needed energy. He needed the power of the dream.
Joach crossed to the center of the half-collapsed chamber and slowly turned in a 
circle, studying the room. He sensed the abundance of energy here. Satisfied, he 
shifted his staff to the crook of his stumped right arm and slipped out a 
dagger. Clenching the hilt between his teeth, he sliced his left palm. As the 
blood welled, he spat out the dagger and lifted his wounded hand. Squeezing a 
fist, he dribbled blood onto the stone floor. Drops splattered at his feet.
Ready, Joach let his eyes drift half closed, slipping into the dream state. The 
dark chamber grew fitfully brighter, as swaths of rock and wall took on the soft 
luminescence of residual energies—echoes of the dragon’s dream.
A smile formed on Joach’s thin lips.
Reaching out with the magick in his own blood, he tied the energies to himself, 
weaving it all together as was his birthright. Once all was secure, Joach 
grabbed up his staff again with his bloodied left hand. He lifted the weapon and 
again slowly turned in a circle, drawing the magick into the staff. He turned 
and turned, dizzying himself, but did not stop until every dreg of magick was 
siphoned into the length of stony wood, weaving stone and magick together.
As he worked, the staff grew cold to the touch, trembling with pent-up power. 
The crystals along the staff’s length glowed with brilliance, flaring brighter, 
even as the cavern grew dimmer.
Soon there was nothing but darkness around Joach.
Satisfied, he lowered the staff and leaned upon it, his legs wobbling and weak. 
He stared at his crutch. The green crystals there gleamed with a sharp radiance. 
Joach’s shoulders shook with relief. He had done it! He had bound the energy to 
the staff.
All that was left was to bind the staff to him, to give him the skill to wield 
it to its fullest extent. Dreamweaving alone could not do the binding that he 
needed. A deeper connection was necessary, and he knew a way—an old spell, and 
one that came with a high cost, as did all things powerful. But what were a few 
more winters lost, when so many more had already been stolen from him? Besides, 
he had been involved in this same spell before, when it had been cast by Elena 
and forged upon Greshym’s old staff. So why not once more? Why not cast by his 
own hand, and forged upon this new staff, now ripe with dream energies?
To challenge Greshym, he needed a mighty weapon and the skill to use it. There 
was only one way to quickly gain such skill.
He must forge the staff into a blood weapon.
Joach prepared himself, concentrating on the red dribble trailing down the 
staff’s surface. It was not a particularly difficult spell, simpler really than 
calling forth balefire. It was the cost that gave him pause. He remembered 
Elena’s sudden aging.
But it was too late to look back. Before he could balk, Joach released the spell 
in a flow of words and will.
The effect was immediate. He felt something vital rip from him and pass through 
his blood into the staff.
Gasping, he fell to his knees. His vision blurred, but he refused to give 
himself over to the darkness. He breathed deeply, sucking in air like a drowning 
man. Finally his vision cleared. The room slowed its spin.
Joach pulled the staff across his knees, and stared at the hand that gripped the 
wood. As with his sister before him, the spell had aged him instantly. His 
fingernails had grown out and curled; his skin had crumpled. Had his sacrifice 
of winters been worth it?
He lifted the staff. The gray wood was now as white as snow. The green crystals, 
aglow with dream energies, stood out starkly, like the crimson streaks flowing 
from the withered hand that held it. With each thud of his heart, the streaks 
flowed farther down the shaft, fusing staff and body, forging weapon to wielder.
Joach hauled himself to his feet. When Elena had forged Greshym’s old staff, 
Joach had become a skilled warrior with the weapon. Would the same hold true 
here? Had the fusion granted him, as he hoped, the ability to wield the dream 
magicks now woven to the staff?
Shaking back the sleeve of his cloak, Joach exposed the stump of his right arm, 
his hand lost to the blood lust of Greshym’s beast. If Joach could mend that 
injury, then perhaps there was hope—not only for himself, but for them all. A 
mighty war was coming, and Joach did not want to remain behind with the children 
and the feeble.
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He reached out to the staff. As his severed wrist touched the petrified wood, 
Joach willed his magick—not weaving this time, but sculpting.
From the stump of his wrist, a phantom hand bloomed out in wisps and tendrils. 
Ghostly fingers stretched and gripped the staff. Joach’s legs shook, but he used 
his blood connection with the staff to draw upon the dream energies. Slowly the 
spirit hand grew solid, gaining substance from his focus and attention. Fingers 
that had once been ghostly became whole. Joach felt the grain of the staff’s 
wood, the sharp edges of the crystalline stone.
He lifted the staff with his dream-sculpted hand and held it aloft. Blood 
continued to feed the staff through his conjured hand.
Dream had indeed become substance!
Power thrilled through him. Dark magick and dream energies, now fused, were his 
to command! He pictured a girl with eyes the color of twilight, and his lips 
moved in a silent vow of vengeance. He would find Greshym and make him pay for 
his theft, make them all pay for what Joach had lost among the sands.
Joach lowered the staff, then wrapped his sliced palm and took the staff back up 
in his gloved grip, severing the connection between flesh and petrified wood. As 
the blood drained out of the white wood, its length grew gray again. For now, he 
would keep his new blood weapon a secret.
Joach raised his right arm and stared at the sculpted hand, formed out of 
elemental energy. It would not do to let this be seen yet, either. There would 
be too many questions… and besides, it drained his precious energies. He waved 
the hand through the air and unbound the pattern, and like a snuffed candle, the 
hand wisped out of existence, back to just dream.
Using his staff as a crutch, Joach headed out of the cavern.
There would come a time to reveal his secret. But for now he would keep the 
knowledge close to his aching heart, next to the memory of a tawny-haired girl 
with the softest of lips.
In her chamber, Elena settled into a chair by the coals of the morn-ing’s fire. 
The others took seats or stood by the hearth. A trio of servants passed mugs 
filled with kaffee and set out platters of warm oat biscuits, sliced apples, 
cheeses, and cubes of spiced pork.
Er’ril took up position, close by her shoulder. If Elena turned her head, her 
cheek could touch the hand that gripped the back of her chair. But now was not 
the time to lean into his strength. Elena sat with her back i
straight, gloved hands folded in her lap. She kept the worry from her face. One 
moon’s time…
Harlequin Quail waited by the fire, staring into the coals as if reading some 
meaning in their last glow. He fingered a silver bell on his doublet until the 
servants departed.
The uproar at the council after the stranger’s pronouncement had made it 
impossible to continue. From the angered shouts and blusters of disbelief, the 
assembly would be deaf to reason until their shock wore off.
Then alarm bells had distracted the assembly momentarily. Word quickly reached 
them that an elv’in scoutship had crashed into the seas. Elena had called for a 
break in the war council.
Er’ril mumbled beside her. “Where is Meric?”
“He’ll be here,” Elena answered.
As if proving her words true, there was a knock on the door. A departing servant 
opened the way for the elv’in prince. Meric bowed into the room, taking in the 
others with a quick flick of his eyes.
The high keel of the Bloodriders sat in the chair across from Elena, his long 
black braid, peppered with gray, over one shoulder. His son, Hunt, stood at his 
side, tall and stiff-backed, his hawk tattoo bright in the hearth’s glow.
The other chair, closer to the fire, was occupied by Master Edyll of the mer’ai. 
The slender, white-haired elder held a steaming mug between his webbed fingers.
Meric nodded to each leader; then his gaze settled briefly on the motley-clothed 
stranger standing with Lord Tyrus.
Cocking one eyebrow, he turned to Elena. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said with 
stiff courtliness. “It took a while to settle things at the docks.”
Elena nodded. “What happened? Word is that a ship crashed.”
“A scoutship, returning from the north, captained by a cousin of mine.” Though 
Meric’s face was locked in his usual stoic countenance, Elena noted the weary 
glint to his eyes, the mournful cast to his lips. Another member of his family 
gone. First his brother lost to the deserts, then his mother, who gave her life 
to save the last refugees of Meric’s home city. With the elv’in folk scattered 
to the winds, Meric was the one to bear the burden of his people here, the last 
of royal blood. The word “king” was whispered behind his back, but he refused to 
take up that mantle. “Not until our people are reunited,” he had warned all who 
pressed him. Now another death.
Elena sighed. “I’m sorry, Meric. This war bleeds all of Alasea.”
The high keel grumbled from his seat. “Then perhaps we should take the fight to 
Blackhall before we are bled dry.”
Elena knew the Dre’rendi were anxious to turn the prows of their mighty war 
fleet toward Blackhall. For now, Elena ignored the challenge in the high keel’s 
words. She continued to address Meric. “What happened to your cousin’s ship?”
Meric frowned and stared at his toes. “Sy-wen is investigating the wreckage with 
Ragnar’k as we speak.”
Elena sensed Meric was holding back something that disturbed him. “What’s 
wrong?”
Meric’s blue eyes sparked sharply from under his silver bangs. “I spoke to 
Frelisha as the ship tumbled. My cousin died bringing a warning back to us—word 
of betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” Er’ril asked. Elena felt the plainsman’s grip tighten on the back of 
her chair. “What did she mean?”
Meric shook his head. “She died, saying no more.”
Elena glanced to Er’ril. His gray eyes were stormy, but his iron countenance 
melted enough to offer her a reassuring nod.
Master Edyll spoke from near the hearth. “Your cousin’s message suggests there 
is someone in our confidence whom we must not trust.”
Elena’s gaze flicked to the bell-draped stranger. She was not the only one. The 
foreigner kept his back to them, staring at the fires, but Lord Tyrus recognized 
their suspicion.
“I vouch for Harlequin Quail with my own blood,” Tyrus said, straightening.
Master Edyll seemed not to hear the pirate’s words. He gazed into the dark 
depths of his mug. “Two messages from the north in one day. One hinting at a 
need to act swiftly. The other warning to be cautious and wary of those at our 
side. It does make one wonder which to believe. Maybe—”
A tinkle of bells interrupted the mer’ai elder. Harlequin Quail spun on a heel 
to face them all. His pale face had reddened; his gold eyes flashed. “Choices? 
You have no choices! You either bring your forces against the Black Beast by 
Midsummer Eve, or all will be lost.”
Master Edyll’s eyes grew large at his outburst, but the high keel laughed 
deeply, more thunder than amusement. “I like the fire in this fellow’s heart!”
Lord Tyrus stepped beside Harlequin, towering over the smaller man. “Do not 
judge a man by his appearance. You wound a great man by ques-tioning Harlequin’s 
word. When I first came to Port Rawl and worked my way up the Guild, there was 
only one man whose word and heart I trusted.” Tyrus placed a hand on Harlequin’s 
shoulder. “He risked much to discover what defenses the Dark Lord means to set 
against you. You may doubt him, a stranger here, a fool dressed in bells, but do 
you doubt me?”
“I meant no affront,” Master Edyll said. “But in this dread time, even the word 
of one’s own brother must be suspect.”
“Then we are defeated before we’ve even begun. If we don’t trust those at our 
sides, what hope is there for victory? Even pirates trust their shipmates.”
Elena spoke up. “What of this word of betrayal from Meric’s cousin?”
Tyrus glanced to the elv’in. “No offense, Prince Meric, but your cousin’s 
warning means nothing to me.” He faced Elena again. “Until we have further 
elaboration, I refuse to go around eyeing each friend with suspicion.”
Meric surprisingly agreed. “When I first stepped onto these shores, I was 
suspicious of everyone and everything.” A shadow of a sad smile touched his 
features. “But I learned otherwise. I’ve watched a friend forged into an enemy 
and seen that same man win his name back.”
“Krai.” Elena nodded.
Meric bowed his head. “I agree with Lord Tyrus. Until we learn more about my 
cousin’s warning, we should proceed with an open heart. If we lose the trust in 
each other, then we’ve lost everything.”
Elena found her gaze meeting the golden eyes of the stranger. “Tell us then, 
Master Quail, what have you learned?”
All eyes focused on the small man. He spoke slowly. “While you’ve sat here 
licking your wounds, the Black Beast has been a busy worm in his volcanic lair. 
Though you thwarted his ambitions by breaking his Weir-gates, do not deceive 
yourself that you’ve driven him from his goal.”
“And what is his goal?” Er’ril asked.
“Ah, now you’re thinking with your head, old knight. Ever since the Dark Lord 
arrived on your shores, boiling up out of the world’s crust in his fiery 
volcano, you’ve tried to drive him from these lands, an invader who must be 
vanquished.”
“So?” Er’ril scoffed. “What would you have had us do? Welcome him with open 
arms? Throw him a tea party?”
Harlequin barked with laughter. “That’s a party I’d love to be invited to.” 
Harlequin snatched up a mug of kaffee, holding it daintily and bowing. His voice 
changed to an oily whine. “More sweet crackers, Master Blac’t
Heart? Another dollop of cream?“ He straightened, his eyes full of wry 
amusement. ”Maybe your tea party idea could have ended centuries of bloodshed.“
Elena felt Er’ril stiffen beside her. She spoke before he burst out in anger. 
“Master Quail, please, what are you saying?”
“That you will never drive the Black Beast of Gul’gotha from these shores.” 
Harlequin set the mug on the hearth’s mantel. “Never.”
“Our forces drove him from A’loa Glen,” the high keel grumbled.
Harlequin faced the man twice his size. “You drove his lieutenants, simpering 
half-men with delusions of grandeur—not the Black Beast. And still you lost half 
your peoples.”
Elena felt a cold stone settle in her belly. The strange man was right.
“And Blackhall makes this island a mere cork in the bath by comparison.” He 
stared around the room. “Have any of you ever been to Blackhall?”
“I’ve seen it with scopes from the fringes of the Stone Forest,” Er’ril said.
“And we’ve maps and diagrams and sea charts,” Hunt added at his father’s side.
“Sea charts?” Harlequin shook his head and glanced to Lord Tyrus as if 
disbelieving the foolishness he was hearing. He faced them again. “I’ve walked 
those halls… as a jester, as a fool, entertainment for the upper floors of that 
hollowed-out mountain. There are over five thousand rooms and halls, leagues of 
corridors with monstrous sights at every turn. So listen to my words. What you, 
Er’ril of Standi, saw through your scopes… what you have mapped, Captain Hunt… 
it is nothing.”
Harlequin waved his foppish hat in the air. “It is a mere cap atop the true 
Blackhall. As much as you see above the waves, it is three—no, at least 
four—times that again beneath the sea.” He stared around at the others. “It is 
not an island you plan to lay siege upon. It is an entire land in and of itself, 
a country of twisted men, lumbering creatures, and black mag-icks. That is what 
you face.”
Silence hung in the room.
Then a single silver bell chimed among the hundreds adorning Harlequin’s attire. 
“I’ve brought you what help I can.” He turned to Hunt. “Better maps, more 
detailed charts of their defenses. For in such a monstrous place as Blackhall, a 
tiny man like myself, playing the fool, is easily overlooked. But even I, with 
all my skill, could only burrow down through the uppermost levels of the foul 
place, a sparrow scritching at the roof tiles.” He glanced around the room 
again. “Trust these words, if you do no others: You will never win Blackhall.”
Elena felt the world grow darker around her.
“Then why have us rush to our doom in a moon’s time,” Master Edyll asked, “if 
all that awaits us is defeat?”
Harlequin sighed sadly. “Because sometimes losing a battle is not the worst 
outcome.”
“What is worse?” the high keel asked.
Harlequin stared at the Dre’rendi leader as if the man were a child. “Losing the 
world.”
Voices started up in shock, but Lord Tyrus spoke up from near the hearth. 
“Listen to what he has to say.”
Harlequin seemed unaffected by the others and continued. “For centuries, Alasea 
has fought to drive the Black Beast from these shores. Your ancient Chyric mages 
drained the last of their blood magick to attempt this. Armies cast their lives 
upon these shores until the lands ran red. For five centuries, uprisings were 
crushed under his black fist. All to what end?”
“To free our lands,” Er’ril growled. “To shake off his yoke of oppression.”
“But did anyone ever ask why?”
Er’ril opened his mouth to speak, but his brow wrinkled in confusion. “What do 
you mean, why?” he blurted out.
Harlequin leaned against the hearth’s mantel. “Why did the Black Heart come 
here?”
Er’ril’s brow crinkled farther.
“It’s taken you five hundred winters to discover the Black Heart is not of 
Gul’gotha but actually an og’re, an ancestor of your friend Tol’chuk.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You don’t know your enemy; you never have. In Blackhall, you see an island and 
think you understand it, never guessing the depths that are hidden beneath. The 
same with the master of that island. You know nothing. Why did this og’re leave 
these lands long ago? Why did he appear among the d’warves? Why did he return 
with conquering armies and magick? Why has he held these lands for so long? Why 
did he position the Weirgates at points of elemental power around Alasea?” 
Harlequin stared hard at everyone, golden eyes aglow. “Why is he here?”
After a moment of stunned silence, Er’ril cleared his throat. “Why?”
Harlequin burst from his position with a jingle and cartwheeled head over heels, 
landing near and pointing his finger at the plainsman’s nose. “Finally! After 
five centuries, someone asked!”
Er’ril leaned away from the man’s finger.
Elena spoke up from her seat. “Why is he here?”
Harlequin lowered his arm and shrugged. “Mother above if I know.” He stepped 
back to the hearth, staring into the dying coals. “I just thought someone should 
wonder.”
Elena frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“None of you do. Until that changes, the Black Heart has the upper hand.”
Master Edyll straightened in his chair. “Now that we’ve been chastised for our 
blindness, perhaps you could tell us about this need for urgent action.”
Harlequin glanced back over his shoulder. “Under the full moon of Midsummer Eve, 
the Black Heart will accomplish what he’s been seeking to do these past several 
centuries. Though breaking the Weirgates slowed him, he has one last Gate, and 
he means to use it to finish what he started.”
Elena thought back on her time spent trapped in the Weir, watching the four 
Gates suck the energy from the world itself. “He seeks to drain the elemental 
energy from the Land’s heart. But why?”
“Why, why, why…” Harlequin turned and pulled his cap on his head. “That is a 
good question. You’re learning, my little bird. Why indeed?” He shrugged and 
winked at her. “I have no idea. But I do know the answer to another question.”
“What’s that?”
He waggled a finger. “No, not what… but where.”
Elena blinked back her confusion. “Where?”
“Where the Dark Lord means to act. It’s why I scooted my arse out of those black 
halls as soon as I could. I know when he means to act—the next full moon—and I 
know where!”
Er’ril straightened. “Where?”
Harlequin glanced between Er’ril and Elena. “Can’t you guess?”
Er’ril dropped his hand to his sword hilt. “Enough questions.”
“Said like a true warrior,” Harlequin said with a sigh. “It’s just that 
sentiment that got us here. Haven’t you been listening? There are never enough 
questions.”
Elena sat very still in her chair. One last Weirgate, the Wyvern ebon’stone 
statue. She pictured when last she had seen it, crated in the hull of a ship. A 
freighter bound… bound for… “Oh, Sweet Mother!” she gasped aloud, suddenly 
understanding. “The Wyvern Gate is heading to my hometown, to Winterfell!”
Harlequin shook his head sadly. “I fear I have worse news than that.
The Black Heart has not been sitting idle as you’ve plotted, mapped, and charted 
away the days.“
“What do you mean?” Er’ril said, placing a protective hand on Elena’s shoulder.
“I managed a glance at a letter from the field, sent by the Dark Lord’s 
lieutenant, Shorkan.” Harlequin spoke amid a jingle of mournful bells. “The 
Weirgate’s not heading to Winterfell. It’s already there.”
Sy-wen leaned close to the seadragon’s neck as it swept through the deep water 
in a wide curve, banking on one ebony-scaled wing. Her dark green hair trailed 
out, matching the color of the kelp forest around them. This close to the island 
of A’loa Glen, the ocean bed was crowded with coral reefs, waving fronds of 
anemone, and dense patches of kelp. Schools of darting skipperflicks and 
luminescent krill parted before the giant dragon. Sy-wen twitched her glassy 
inner eyelids to sharpen her vision.
On your right, Ragnar’t, she sent to her mount.
I see too, my bonded… Hold tight…
She felt the flaps of scale securing her to her mount squeeze; then the dragon 
lunged to the right, almost flipping belly-up to make the sharp turn. Sy-wen 
felt a surge of joy at the rush of water against her bare skin, the bunched 
muscle between her legs, the blur of ocean. The feeling echoed to the dragon and 
back at her, tinged with the beast’s own senses: the smell of kelp, the trace of 
blood in the water from a recent shark kill, the sonorous echo of other dragons 
out in the deeper waters where the giant Leviathans patrolled.
Sy-wen concentrated on their goal. Ahead, a large cloud of silt clouded the 
clear waters. The elv’in scoutship, piloted by Meric’s cousin, must have struck 
with considerable force to dredge up such volumes of sand and debris. She 
silently urged Ragnar’k to circle the area before going in closer.
The dragon glided in a gentle, deepening spiral toward the site. The ship had 
crashed into a trench, dragged by its iron keel straight to the seabed. All that 
remained floating atop the waves were a few crates, a bro-ken section of mast, 
and a scattering of planks. The bulk of the broken ship lay below.
Meric had sent word to the mer’ai, seeking help. Sy-wen had left immediately 
from her mother’s Leviathan, where she and Kast had been visiting. She was not 
sure what Meric thought she might find, but she could at least search for the 
body of Meric’s cousin, to return her to her family. It was a sorrowful duty, 
but one she would not shirk.
As Ragnar’k swung around the far side of the silt cloud, the stern of the ship 
came into view; the current was slowly churning the sandy cloud away. The ship 
lay on its starboard side. The iron keel, forged by lightning, glinted dully in 
the deepwater gloom. When the ships flew through the air, their keels glowed a 
coppery hue of sunset. No longer. Here was just iron, dead and dim.
Ragnar’k tucked in his wings and used the sinuous motions of his body to slither 
over the ruins. A large gray rockshark, nosing around the ship, sped away as the 
dragon’s shadow passed over it.
Sy-wen ignored the predator, her attention focused on the wreckage. The hull had 
cracked in half upon impact. The masts had been sheared off, but the sails were 
still tangled by ropes to the shattered ship, flapping in the current like 
ghosts. What happened? she wondered to herself.
But her thoughts weren’t hers alone. Smells strange, Ragnar’k whispered. Bad. We 
go now.
No, my sweet giant. We must search.
She felt the hint of his worry, but also his acknowledgment.
/ must search closer. Can you bring me to the broken section of hull?
As answer, Ragnar’k wound his body in a tight coil and swam down to the 
seafloor, beside the ragged crack in the hull. Silt churned as his belly and 
legs brushed the sandy bottom.
You go now? Ragnar’k asked, sorrow behind his sending.
/ must. You know.
I know. My heart will miss you.
Sy-wen checked the pair of air pods and the spears on her back. Satisfied, she 
slid her feet free of the flaps. Fear not, my love. You’re always in my heart.
A warm sensation coursed through her, sent by the dragon.
I’ll see you soon. She spat out the siphon that let her share the dragon’s air 
reserves and allowed her natural buoyancy to lift her from her seat. As soon as 
she lost contact with the dragon, the seabed floor burst up in a churn of silt 
and sand. A dark shadow whirled beneath her, swirling and condensing. Sy-wen 
kicked and swept her arms to hold herself in place amid the swirling cloud, and 
waited.
There was another reason Sy-wen had been asked to examine the wreckage. She had 
her own expert on ships and sailing at her side.
From the cloud below her, Kast suddenly appeared, naked, eyes frantically 
searching. She dove toward him with a smile. His black hair, unbound from its 
usual long braid, floated around his face, his dragon tattoo bright on cheek and 
neck. His eyes met hers. Though she couldn’t speak heart to heart to him, the 
same warm sensation coursed through her. Their sharing was an older magick.
He swam up to her and slid his long arms around her waist, staring deep into her 
eyes. After so long with her, he was growing as comfortable in the sea as she. 
She reached to the air pod at her side, but instead, his lips found hers. He 
kissed her deeply.
After too short a time, he broke off. He still could not hold his breath for as 
long as a true mer’ai.
Sy-wen passed him an air pod, and he bit off the glued tip of its stem. She 
watched him inhale two breaths. He motioned that he was fine. She freed the 
second pod and did the same, then pointed to the cracked hull of the elv’in 
ship. They had drifted up a few spans and had to dive back down toward the dark 
interior. Kast kept one hand in hers. In the cold waters, his palm was a warm 
coal.
Together, they slipped between the yawning jaws of the gaping hull. An elv’in 
scoutship was not a large ship, less than two dragonlengths. Its bow end was no 
more than a trio of wardrooms and a small kitchen. The stern end contained a 
storage hold.
Kast motioned that he would check the forward rooms. She nodded. Before 
departing the Leviathan, they had broken down the search. Since the body of 
Meric’s cousin had not floated up, perhaps it was still trapped in the wreckage.
Sy-wen reached over a shoulder and freed one of her two short spears. She passed 
the weapon to Kast, remembering the rockshark prowling around the ship earlier. 
Then she freed her own spear and shook the two fist-sized glowglobes dangling 
from its butt end. The trapped algae in the kelp pods burst into green 
brilliance, bathing the wooden interior ribs of the ship in a sickly light.
Kast followed her example, then lifted his spear in a salute and slid from her 
side. As planned, he would check the bow section; Sy-wen the stern.
Turning, Sy-wen stared at the tumble of crates and barrels that filled the 
storage space. Some floated, buoyed and bobbing overhead. Others held contents 
heavy enough to keep them resting against the tilted deck. She stared deeper 
into the murky hold. The glow of her spear’s globes could not penetrate to the 
far end.
With a glance over her shoulder, Sy-wen watched Kast’s feet disappear through a 
hatch. Alone, she turned back to the gloomy interior of the ship’s storage 
compartment. Raising her spear ahead of her, she kicked off a strut and glided 
amid the piled debris. Was there some clue to the fate of the scoutship hidden 
among these crates? She swam slowly, searching for anything suspicious.
With her spear, Sy-wen bumped aside a floating crate, disturbing a large sea 
turtle. The ocean denizen eyed her with clear annoyance and paddled awkwardly 
away.
Sy-wen swam deeper into the hold.
Soon she found herself gliding above a nest of small, oddly shaped barrels. Each 
was perfectly oval in shape and no larger than a human head: They looked like 
large eggs. But what was odd was their coloring: a deep ebony—so dark in fact, 
the eggs seemed to suck the light rather than reflect it. She swam closer, 
intrigued, and saw forked streaks of silver running through the black, like 
cracks in a shell.
Sy-wen leaned her face nearer, and suddenly knew what she had found. Sweet 
Mother above! Almost choking in panic, she sprang back, paddling. She used her 
spear to push away from the crowded deck, but her rising back struck a rib of 
the boat, holding her above the abomination. As she stared down, her heart 
sickened, and the cold chill of the ocean penetrated her bones. She spun in a 
tight circle. The objects were scattered all around. There had to be over a 
hundred of them.
Her eyes were wide with fear.
They were all made of ebon’stone’t Ebon’stone eggs!
She backed away from the nest, kicking aside crates that floated along the roof. 
She swam to the broken section of hull and stared up at the sun shining high 
above the ocean, a watery blur of brightness. She drew strength from the light, 
as if its purity could cleanse the sight from her eyes.
Something brushed against her shoulder.
She shouted in fright, spitting out her air pod and gulping a mouthful of 
seawater. Arms grabbed her and spun her around. She found Kast peering down at 
her with concern. His face was better than any sun.
He dropped his spear and snatched up her discarded air pod, bringing its stem to 
her lips. She took it gratefully, blowing the water from her
°
mouth, then sucking in air. Half sobbing, she clasped to him and buried her face 
into his chest.
He held her until her shaking stopped.
After several breaths, she felt strong enough to push away. She sent him a 
questioning look. He shook his head. He had been unable to find the captain’s 
body. But he lifted his other arm. A book was clasped in his grip. It looked 
like the ship’s log. She nodded. If the water hadn’t damaged it too severely, 
maybe it held a record of what had happened… or where the ship had come upon 
such a foul load.
Biting her lip, she tugged Kast toward the stern hold. He should see what she 
had discovered. He retrieved his spear, and together they ventured back into the 
maze of crates and barrels. She quickly returned to the nest of ebon’stone eggs 
and pointed.
Kast seemed as confused as she had been at first. He swam down, but she 
restrained him from getting too near. She lowered her spear’s glow-globes 
closer, then felt him stiffen with recognition. He glanced back at her, shock 
and fear shining in his dark eyes.
She tried to tug him away, but he reached to her waist and slipped free a small 
net of woven seaweed, normally used to collect sea-tubers and other edibles. He 
passed her his spear and the logbook, then unfurled her net. She knew what he 
meant to do.
She grabbed his wrist, wanting to stop him, but she knew he was right. They must 
return with one of these dreadful eggs. Others would want to see it, examine it, 
to attempt to divine the danger here.
Sy-wen met Kast’s eyes and urged him caution. He nodded, understanding.
He slid from her side and kicked off to where a lone egg lay apart from the 
others. Kast lowered the net over it, then scooped it up, careful not to touch 
its surface.
He waved her to lead the way back out. Clutching the logbook to her chest, she 
swam swiftly out of the broken ship and into the bright waters beyond.
Sy-wen turned and motioned for Kast to draw nearer. Slipping the spears over her 
shoulder, she motioned with her hands: a bird in flight. He nodded. They must 
bring their discoveries as quickly as possible to the castle.
Kast slid up to her. He passed her his burden. She was reluctant to accept it 
but had no choice. She held the book and the twisted handle of the net in one 
hand. With the other, she reached to the man she loved. He took her fingers and 
brought her palm to his lips. The heat of his kiss burned.
He then reached and pulled her close, pressing against her, one leg slipping 
between hers. He squeezed the fear from her with his strong arms. Gasping 
slightly, she stared up into his eyes and saw the love there.
At last, before she could balk, she slipped her free hand to his cheek and 
touched his dragon tattoo. His body arched against her, both pain and pleasure. 
/ have need of you, she intoned.
The world burst around her. Sand skirled out in a mad whirl. She spun. Her legs 
were thrown apart, forced by muscle and magick. Under her, a dragon took shape, 
wings spread, a roar echoed in mind and ear. She clutched her burdens in an iron 
grip.
To the castle, Ragnar’t. Quickly.
Dragon thoughts and sensations merged with her own. As you wish, my bonded.
Her feet slipped into the warm flaps of scale that drew tight around her, 
holding her secure. She leaned into his neck. Go, my sweet giant.
With a burst of muscle and energy, the dragon lunged up, toward the watery sun. 
Sy-wen held tight to her burdens, but at the back of her mind, she wondered if 
all this was best left drowned at the bottom of the ocean.
Then dragon and rider burst from the sea. In the distance, she spotted ships on 
the water and in the air. Farther out, Leviathans spouted jets of spray as they 
filled their monstrous reserves. The world awaited her, and the dangers ahead 
must be faced.
Ragnar’k tilted on a wingtip and banked toward the island and the great edifice 
of A’loa Glen, the last bastion of freedom in this dark world.
Sy-wen glanced down to her netted cargo, wondering again what horror she was 
carrying forward from this watery grave. She pictured the dark nest in the 
broken hold and shuddered.
Whatever evil it represented, it must be stopped.
“WlNTERFELL…” ElENA WHISPERED.
Er’ril stared at the stricken woman. How he wanted to scoop her into his arms 
and calm that look of dismay. She seemed to sink in on herself, swamped by 
memories of a childhood lost too young. Her eyes, usually a bright emerald, had 
gone distant, as if she had to search far back to remember. He tried to remember 
the little girl he first saw on the cobbled streets of Winterfell. It seemed 
like ages ago to him also.
He suddenly found her eyes focused back on him. What did she see? An old man 
wearing a young man’s face? What more did he have to offer her? He had forsaken 
his own immortality for the woman at his side, placing all his hopes for 
Alasea’s future on her small shoulders. He had a sudden urge to drop to his 
knees and beg her forgiveness.
Instead, he stood his post: knight, liegeman, protector… and in some small way, 
husband. For the past moons, they had given up denying what was in their hearts. 
Bound by elv’in law, they were husband and wife. But what hearts could admit, 
their bodies had yet to yield. He ached for her, but the gulf of years still 
separated them. She was a child wearing a woman’s body. He was an old man 
disguised in a young man’s form. That difference had yet to be resolved with 
their tender touches, glances, and brief kisses.
“Er’ril,” Elena said to him, bringing him back to the dilemma presented by this 
acerbic clown in motley and bells. “We can’t dismiss what Master Quail has told 
us. It rings with truth. We know the Wyvern Gate was heading to the Winterfell 
when we discovered it. I can’t imagine what that dark og’re expects to 
accomplish with only one Weirgate, but it must be stopped.”
Er’ril nodded. “Without doubt. But how?”
“We destroyed the others,” Elena said. “We will destroy this one. The Wyvern 
Gate is the last stake that holds Chi imprisoned. Destroy it, and Chi will be 
free. The Dark Lord of Blackhall will be powerless.”
Er’ril grimaced. “So the spirits have said.” But he was not so sure, himself. 
During the last moon, Elena and Er’ril had shared many discussions with the 
spirits of the Blood Diary: the shade of Aunt Fila and the spirit-being Cho. 
Five centuries ago, Cho’s brother spirit, Chi, had been trapped within the four 
Weirgates. With three broken, no one could say for sure why Chi remained trapped 
in this last Gate. Er’ril doubted that the Wyvern Gate was the sole answer. “We 
dare not place all our hopes that the spirits are correct in this matter.”
Harlequin spoke by the hearth. “Spirits, whores, or fools—what does it matter? I 
read Shorkan’s note to his underlings. By Midsummer Eve, he declared, the battle 
would be over. The last words in his note I can still quote: ‘Lo the Eve, wit’ch 
and world will be broken upon the Master’s pyre.’ ” Harlequin shrugged and 
picked at a hangnail. “I don’t know. That sounded pretty dire to me.”
Meric cleared his throat. “It does seem plainly spoken.”
“It could be a trap,” Er’ril said, “intended to draw Elena out… or to make us 
act before we’re ready.”
The high keel’s face twisted as if he tasted something sickening. “Or a feint, 
meant to divide our forces.”
No one spoke for a few moments, pondering these possibilities.
“I can’t ignore the threat to Winterfell,” Elena said. “Trap or not, we must 
attempt to break that last Gate.”
Er’ril sighed, recognizing the glint of her determination. “What of the attack 
on Blackhall? Do we wait until after the Gate is dealt with?”
Elena glanced to her gloved hands. “We dare not. Before our allies’ elemental 
powers wane further, we’ll bring them to bear upon the volcanic stronghold. 
Perhaps with the Dark Lord’s attention focused on his own defense, we’ll be able 
to thwart his ambition in the mountains.”
“We?” Er’ril asked.
“If this last Gate holds the key to the Dark Lord’s goal, then he’s sure to have 
brought strong forces to protect it—even stronger than when his power was 
divided among the four Gates. If we are to succeed, my strength will be needed. 
We’ll take one of the elv’in ships; once the Gate is destroyed, we can return 
and help with the siege upon Blackhall.”
“You can use my ship,” Meric said. “The Stormwing is the swiftest, and my 
magicks are the strongest of my people. I’ll lead you to the mountains and 
back.”
“You’ll be needed here to lead your people,” Elena said.
Meric waved away her words. “The captain of the Thunderclouds, our warships, can 
lead as well as I, and he’s a better warrior and tactician. If the Wyvern Gate 
is as important as Lord Tyrus’ friend suggests, then my skills are best suited 
in aiding you.”
Before the matter could be discussed further, a loud thud sounded overhead, 
accompanied by the screech of scraped stone. All eyes glanced upward as a 
familiar roar echoed down to them.
“Ragnar’k,” Master Edyll said from his seat.
Meric stood straighten “Maybe they bring news of my cousin’s ship.”
Lord Tyrus moved from his space by the hearth. “I’ll see if it is so.” The 
pirate prince hurried through the small tower door, allowing in a gust of ocean 
breeze.
Voices were heard, and then Tyrus returned, minus his cloak. Kast followed, 
barefooted and wrapped in the prince’s garment, Sy-wen at his side. Both 
newcomers shivered and bore burdens in hand, faces grim.
“There’s hot kaffee by the hearth,” Er’ril said.
Kast crossed with Sy-wen, drawn by the hearth’s warmth. Both were quickly given 
steaming mugs and updated on the discussions.
Kast stared over at Meric. “I must add more dire tidings.”
“Of course you must,” Harlequin said with false brightness. Meric frowned and 
sat straighten “Something about my cousin’s ship?” Kast nodded. “We did not find 
her body, but we found this.” He pulled out a large leather-wrapped tome from 
under his cloak. “The captain’s logbook.”
Meric accepted the parcel, resting a palm atop it. “Thank you. I pray it 
contains some answers.”
“Pray hard.” Kast nodded to Sy-wen. “The log wasn’t all we found.” Sy-wen lifted 
a large dark object, setting it on the table and carefully removing the seaweed 
net.
“An egg?” Master Edyll asked. “What strangeness is this?” the high keel asked.
Er’ril stared in disbelief. He choked, unable to find his voice. He saw similar 
reactions around the room. “Ebon’stone!” he finally gasped. “We thought as 
much,” Kast said. “Why did you bring this here?”
“We thought it best you see this for yourselves.” His voice grew more grim as he 
glanced to Er’ril. “There are over a hundred of the cursed things down in the 
hold of the sunken ship.”
“A hundred… ?”
“At least that many,” Sy-wen added softly. Elena pointed. “But what are they? 
What’s their purpose?” Meric squinted his ice-blue eyes. “More importantly, why 
did my cousin bring them here?”
“Perhaps forced,” Master Edyll offered. The group gathered in a wary circle 
around the table. “Whatever danger it represents,” Kast said, “I thought we 
should be prepared. Figure out what risk this single one poses, then address the 
nest under the sea.”
Er’ril noticed one member of the group, usually quick with his tongue, remained 
quiet. Harlequin Quail stared at the ebon’stone egg with an unreadable glint in 
his gold eyes—no wry comment or biting wit this time.
Er’ril shifted from Elena’s side, moving around the table as if he were 
examining the egg from all vantages. As he slipped behind the pirate spy, Er’ril 
slid his sword silently from his sheath and pressed its tip against the base of 
the small man’s skull. “What do you know of this?”
Harlequin did not flinch.
“What are you doing, plainsman?” Lord Tyrus demanded.
“Stay back,” Er’ril warned. “This fellow has been to Blackhall and back, as had 
the ship captained by Meric’s cousin. Perhaps he knows something of this 
threat.”
Harlequin sighed and turned, slowly. He faced Er’ril. The swordtip now rested at 
the hollow of his throat. “I know nothing of these black stones.”
Er’ril narrowed his eyes. “You lie.”
“Are we back to that argument again?”
“Er’ril…” Elena said with a note of warning.
“I’ve lived over five centuries,” Er’ril said. “I can tell when a man is hiding 
something.”
“I hide nothing,” Harlequin turned back to the table, ignoring the sword. “And I 
spoke the truth. I’ve never seen such an egg before.” His gaze crossed the table 
to Elena. “But I’ve seen its fair twin.”
“Explain yourself,” Er’ril said.
Harlequin stepped toward the table, arms at his side. “As I said before, when in 
Blackhall, I saw despicable acts committed—some upon those who deserved it, 
others upon innocents. It was a labyrinth of torture and slaughter. Screams and 
wails were constant. You got accustomed to it after a while, like birdsong in 
the wood. It was simply everywhere.”
Harlequin stared at the egg. “Then one day, I came upon a chamber in the deepest 
level that I could reach. It was a long hall, stretching the full length of the 
mountain. Alcoves lined both sides. In each stood a pillar of volcanic basalt, 
atop which rested an egg of perfect symmetry, the same size and shape as this 
one. But these eggs were not the black of midnight, but the rose of dawn. Each 
was sculpted out of heartstone.”
“Heartstone?” Elena whispered.
Harlequin nodded. “It was beautiful. The hall stretched far, each egg glowing 
with a brightness that reached to the bone and made one feel whole and pure. It 
was the first time I cried in that sick place, not tears of horror or pain, but 
of beauty and joy. In some ways, it was the most dreadful sight—such beauty in 
that well of darkness.”
“Heartstone eggs in Blackhall.” Er’ril lowered his sword. “Ebon’stone eggs here. 
It makes no sense.”
Elena’s brows knit together. “Maybe it does. When we broke the Gates, ebon’stone 
was transformed into heartstone. Could this be further evidence of some dark 
link between the two stones?”
Er’ril’s frown deepened.
“Connected or not,” Master Edyll interrupted, “to have a hundred of these 
grotesque things sunk so close to our shores is reason for concern.”
“I agree,” Sy-wen said. “They surely poison the waters with their mere 
presence.”
Elena nodded. “We’ll find some way to haul the wreckage and its cargo away from 
here. In the meantime, we’ll examine the captain’s logbook, and see if our 
castle scholars can discover any information about these eggs.”
Elena backed slowly away and returned to her seat. “Time presses, and we dare 
not waste it on mysteries we can’t presently solve. We must concentrate our 
resources and talents upon the war to come.”
Er’ril circled the room to stand beside Elena’s chair as she continued. “I would 
have all the four heads of our various forces meet these next three days.” She 
nodded around the room. “The high keel of the Dre’rendi to represent our fleets 
upon the seas, and Master Edyll of the mer’ai to coordinate our forces below. 
Lord Tyrus, as head of the pirate brigade, will continue to organize our scouts 
and spies. And lastly, Meric, you’ll need to alert the leader of the 
Thunderclouds to meet with these others in order to prepare the elv’in 
warships.”
“I’ll do so immediately,” Meric answered.
“We also must alert Wennar and the d’warf legions,” Er’ril added. “Get him 
moving his foot soldiers north from Penryn toward the Stone Forests.”
Elena nodded. “I’ll leave the details to the heads of each army. Er’ril will act 
as my liaison during these next days. By seven days’ time, I want our forces 
ready to set out for Blackhall.”
The high keel pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. “It will be done!”
“What of the danger in the mountains?” Harlequin asked. “Leave that to me.” 
Elena stared at the egg.
Harlequin glanced to Lord Tyrus, then back to Elena. “I would ask one thing of 
you for my services—that I be allowed to go with you into the mountains.”
As Elena frowned, Er’ril spoke up. “Why?”
Harlequin lifted his arms, jangling. “Do I look a warrior? I am a thief, a 
pickpocket, a slinker in shadows. I am no good when swords are raised and the 
drums of war sound. But I would give my talents where they are most needed, and 
follow the path I’ve started to its end.”
Before Elena could answer, Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder. “If this 
mission is attempted, then Elena must be surrounded by those she most trusts. 
Though she may ignore whispers of betrayal, I will not.” Elena opened her mouth 
to object, but Er’ril stopped her with a stern glance. “Am I your liegeman?” he 
asked coldly. “Your protector and counsel? Would you take that from me?”
“Of course not,” Elena intoned quietly.
Er’ril recognized the hurt in her eyes. Perhaps he had been too harsh, but Elena 
sometimes opened her heart too easily. Though she had survived much these past 
winters, she was still tender deep down, vulnerable. He would protect her. He 
would be hard when Elena could not. It gave meaning to the centuries he had 
spent on the roads.
“I don’t know you, Master Quail,” Er’ril said. “So despite Lord Tyrus’ 
assurance, I won’t trust you. And until I do, I won’t have you with us. I 
appreciate your help and the risk you’ve taken. You’ll be well paid in gold.”
Harlequin flicked a golden bell, setting it to ringing. “I have enough gold.” He 
turned on a heel and retreated toward the door, moving swiftly.
Lord Tyrus shook his head as the man left. “You don’t know the man whose offer 
you so casually cast aside.”
“Exactly,” Er’ril said, unbending.
Elena spoke up. “It is near to midday. Perhaps we’d best disperse, and begin our 
long planning for the war to come.”
Master Edyll stood with Sy-wen’s help. “I’ll attend to the council. They must be 
near to pulling each other’s hair out by now.”
The other leaders all began to move toward the doors, already planning amongst 
themselves.
By the door, Elena saw everyone off. She whispered her confidence to each one, 
gripping hands and exuding warmth. Er’ril watched her. Her fall of curls, grown 
out almost to her shoulders, framed a fine-boned face, marking her elv’in 
heritage. But where the elv’in were all slender limbs, Elena was all graceful 
curves, like a flower grown from land, rather than a wisp blown by the wind. 
Er’ril found his breath deepening as he looked upon her.
Soon the room was empty. Elena crossed back to him. Er’ril prepared himself to 
be scolded for his outburst at Harlequin.
Instead Elena sank against him, resting her cheek against his chest.
“Elena… ?”
“Just hold me.”
He wrapped her in his arms. It was suddenly not so hard to remember the girl 
from Winterfell.
“I’m afraid to go home.”
He held her tight. “I know.”
Meric climbed down the long, winding stair in a half daze, clutch-ing the sodden 
logbook under one arm. Lost in his thoughts about his cousin and her fate, he 
barely heard the argument commencing behind him between Hunt and Lord Tyrus. 
There was no love lost between the Dre’rendi and the lord of the pirates. Prior 
to being brought together here, both sides had been blood-sworn enemies, two 
sharks of the southern seas preying on the unsuspecting merchant ships and each 
other. Old animosities were hard to set aside.
“Your ships may be swifter,” Hunt snarled, “but they break like twigs.”
“At least on our ships, we’re free men. Not slaves!” Hunt growled. “It was an 
ancient oath! A bond of honor… something you freebooters and privateers would 
never understand.”
The end of the stairs appeared ahead. Meric hurried forward to escape their 
sparring, and ran headlong into Nee’lahn.
She fell back, eyes wide at finding the tower stairs crowded with men. Meric 
reached out to catch her as she tripped backward. “Prince Meric!” Nee’lahn 
exclaimed, regaining her footing. “Papa Hunt!” a small voice shouted. From 
around the nyphai woman’s cloak, a small figure darted, dark hair waving, as she 
scooted past.
The large Bloodrider bent to swing the small girl up onto his shoulder. 
“Sheeshon, what are you doing here?”
Sheeshon spoke rapidly. “We were in the place with all the flowers. But Rodricko 
made more flowers with his singing.” Sheeshon pointed to the boy at Nee’lahn’s 
side. The shy youngster was all but buried in his mother’s cloak, his eyes 
round. “And I ate a bug,” Sheeshon finished proudly. “You did what?”
“It flew in my mouth,” she said with a simple finality, as if this were 
explanation enough.
The high keel pushed past his son, grumbling about the stairs. Master Edyll 
agreed. “Why do they have to build these cursed towers so tall?”
The two elders headed down the corridor. Hunt nodded his thanks to Nee’lahn and 
followed his father.
Meric was left with Nee’lahn and Lord Tyrus, who carried the net with the 
ebon’stone egg. They were to take the egg and logbook to the scholars at the 
libraries.
“Where are you going?” Meric asked Nee’lahn.
“I must speak to Elena.”
Meric glanced up the twisting stairs. “This is not the best time. She has enough 
to ponder at the moment.” He turned back and finally recognized the distress in 
her face, the puffiness in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
The nyphai stared up the steps, clearly undecided. Something had shaken her to 
her roots. She glanced to her towheaded child. “It… it’s Rodricko.”
Meric studied the boy. “Is he sick? Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” Nee’lahn was close to tears. “This morning, Rodricko sang his 
budding song to his young tree, a step toward union and bonding.” Her voice 
began to crack. “But’s-something happened.”
Meric stepped closer, putting an arm around her shoulders.
She trembled, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “His tree budded. Rodricko was 
accepted, but… but the new flowers, the new buds, they’re dark things. Black as 
any Grim wraith.”
Meric met Lord Tyrus’ eyes over the top of the nyphai’s head. Both were well 
familiar with the Grim of the Dire Fell, the twisted spirits of Nee’lahn’s 
sisterhood.
“The buds are foul to look upon.” Tears began to flow down her cheeks. “Some 
dread evil for sure.”
“We don’t know that,” Meric consoled, but he knew the sapling was the last tree 
of Nee’lahn’s people, born from the union of her own tree’s spirit and a Grim 
wraith. Had the touch of the Grim somehow tainted the tree?
Nee’lahn clearly thought so. She gazed up at Meric with wounded eyes. “The buds 
will bloom for the first time this night, releasing their unique magick. But 
with the buds bearing the mark of the Grim, I don’t know what evil may arise.” 
She covered her face with one hand and pulled the boy tighter to her cloak, half 
burying him so her words were kept from him. “I dare not let my hopes endanger 
A’loa Glen. The tree must be cut down.”
Meric stiffened at this thought. In many ways, the tree represented all of 
Alasea’s hopes. Planted in the site of the original koa’kona that had once 
graced the island for centuries, the sapling represented a new beginning, a 
fresh future.
From one step up, Lord Tyrus voiced an even more significant concern. “But what 
of Rodricko? What will become of him?”
“The tree accepted his song.” Nee’lahn choked back a sob. “He is bonded. If the 
tree dies, then he dies.”
Meric’s gaze flicked to the child, cuddled tight to his mother. He had been with 
Nee’lahn when they discovered the boy. Together, they had fought the Grim and 
the Dark Lord’s minions to bring him safely to the
°
island. Meric’s face hardened. “Then I will allow no harm to come to his tree.
Nee’lahn clutched at Meric’s arm. “You, more than anyone, should understand. It 
is surely a sign of the Blight. I would rather Rodricko die than be twisted by 
whatever sickness taints the tree. You saw what happened to my sisters. I won’t 
see it happen to my son. I would rather take an ax to the tree myself.” She 
broke down into sobs.
Stunned, Meric knelt beside the boy child. Rodricko hid his face in the folds of 
his mother’s cloak. The boy might not understand their whispered words, but he 
knew his mother’s distress. Meric glanced up to Nee’lahn and saw the despair in 
her eyes. Ever since their time in the north together, the two had grown closer, 
bonded by their two peoples’ shared histories and their own hardships and 
losses. In many ways, here was a part of his new family, and after losing both 
mother and brother, Meric would lose no more.
Tyrus whispered behind them. “Perhaps we should consider this when emotions are 
calmer, heads clearer.”
Meric stood, his cloak billowing out around him. “No, there is nothing to 
decide. No harm will come to the tree if it risks Rodricko.” He touched 
Nee’lahn’s cheek, gently. “I will not let you act hastily, striking out from 
fear of only one possible outcome. Mycelle of the Dro used poison to save 
elementals from becoming ill’guard. But she destroyed all the strands of their 
possible futures because one might lead to corruption. I won’t let you follow in 
her footsteps.”
Lord Tyrus spoke up, his voice a trace huskier. “Meric is right. Mycelle would 
not wish this path for anyone.”
Nee’lahn glanced to the pirate prince, then back to Meric. “What are we to do?”
Meric lifted his other hand and rested it atop the young boy’s head. “Face the 
future. Come nightfall, we will see what fate holds for the boy and his tree.”
Half a land away, Greshym pounded the table in beat with the drummer. “Go for 
five! Go for five!” he chanted drunkenly with the other patrons of the Moon Lake 
Inn.
The juggler took up a fifth burning brand, tossing it high into the air, to 
tumble amid the others. The sweating performer darted around the plank stage set 
up in the common area of the inn, fighting to keep the flaming brands from 
hitting the straw-strewn floor. Two fellow performers stood by with buckets of 
water.
Greshym stared blearily at the show. All around Moon Lake, the Celebration of 
the First Moon was under way, a circus of minstrels, animal acts, and displays 
of prowess. This evening the festivities would culminate at the shores of Moon 
Lake, when the summer’s first full moon would light the still waters of the 
Western Reaches’ largest lake. Stories claimed the spirits of the wood would 
grant wishes to those who bathed in the moonlit waters.
Greshym could not care less for such stories. He had all he needed: a flagon of 
ale, a full belly, and the energy to enjoy all the passions in life. A barmaid 
came to fill his empty mug. He grabbed a handful of her plump backside.
She squealed. “Master Dismarum!” she scolded with a wink as she swung away.
He had spent the last few nights in her room. A handful of copper had opened 
both her door and her legs. The memory of those long nights in her arms dulled 
his interest in juggling and flaming brands.
Greshym caught his reflection in the grimy mirror above the bar. His hair shone 
golden in the torchlight of the dingy inn; his eyes sparkled with youth; his 
back was straight, his shoulders broad. He wagered that it might not have taken 
even those few coppers to open the barmaid’s bed. But he had not been content to 
wait for her interest to flame into desire, not when the same could be achieved 
much faster with a bit of coin.
Patience was not a virtue of youth.
Greshym intended to experience all life’s many sensations and desires. No longer 
trapped in a decaying form, he wanted to run his new body through its paces. So 
now he shoved to his feet, and reached for the staff leaning against the table. 
He no longer needed it to support himself, only as a focus for his power.
He fingered the length of bone, the straight femur of a wybog, a long-limbed 
forest stalker. The hollow bone, capped at either end by a plug of dried clay, 
was filled with the blood of a woodsman’s newborn babe. The foundling’s life 
energy, tied by an old spell, had charged his staff.
Turning his back on the stage, Greshym tilted his stave toward the performers. 
The juggler tripped. Torches went sailing, end over end, past the stage. The 
Waterboys ran out to douse the brands before the strawed floor took the flame.
Greshym smiled as the room glowed brighter behind him. Flames roared up. Gasps 
and cries arose from both patrons and performers. He bit back a chuckle. It was 
child’s play to change water into oil.
Fires roared across the inn’s common room. Screams for aid followed Greshym out 
the door.
Beyond the inn, the expanse of Moon Lake spread before him, cast in copper by 
the setting sun. Maples and pines framed the lake and spread to the horizons. 
Among the trees, scores of gaily colored tents had sprung up like summer flowers 
over the past few days, in preparation for this night’s ceremonies. Folk had 
traveled here from all over Alasea, anticipating the night when a thousand 
bathers’ wishes would be whispered to the full moon.
Greshym himself had come to Moon Lake a fortnight ago and had remained for the 
festivities, reveling in all of life’s textures. He would use this sacred night 
for his own ends. He stared out at the hundreds of celebrants walking the 
streets of the small village and squabbling with tin merchants and spice 
traders. So much life to explore again.
He sauntered toward the deeper forest beyond the village’s edge, all but 
twirling his bone staff. His legs moved strongly; his lungs drew air in without 
a whisper of a wheeze. Even walking was a joy.
In such good spirits, Greshym pointed his staff at a man taunting a chained and 
growling sniffer. The purple-skinned predator suddenly broke through its muzzle 
and bit off three of its taunter’s fingers.
Greshym passed the site as whips snapped, driving the sniffer back from the 
screaming man. “Better wish for a new set of fingers this night,” Greshym 
mumbled.
Then he was in the woods. He hurried his pace, enjoying the pump of muscle, the 
freedom in his joints. After being trapped for centuries in that old decrepit 
form, the wonders and joys of this young body never waned. Youth was so wasted 
on the young.
Around him, the forest light grew dimmer, shaded more darkly as the trees grew 
denser and taller.
In the dimness, the smell struck him before the sight: the reek of wet goat and 
the stench of rent bowels. Greshym entered the clearing to find his servant, 
Rukh, crouched amid a charnel house. The carcasses of countless forest creatures 
littered the space. The stump gnome had his muzzle buried in the belly of a doe, 
growling and tearing contentedly. “Rukh!” Greshym barked.
The hoofed creature sprang straight as if struck by lightning, squealing 
piggishly. Its tiny pointed ears trembled. “M-master!”
Greshym stared at the gore strewn around the area. Most of the car-casses were 
only half eaten—he had not been the only one enjoying the varying tastes offered 
by this night. “I see you’ve kept busy while I’ve been gone.”
Rukh dropped back to the ground, cowering. “Good here… good meat.” One hand 
reached to the doe. Claws ripped off the creature’s rear leg. Rukh held out the 
bloody haunch. “M-master eat… ?”
Greshym found himself too content to be angry. At least the stump gnome had 
remained where he had left it. He wasn’t sure his spell of compulsion would last 
so long without renewal. “Clean yourself,” Greshym commanded, pointing to a 
nearby stream. “The villagers will smell you from a league away.”
“Yes, Master.” The creature loped to the brook and leaped fully into it.
Greshym turned from the splashing and stared back in the direction of the 
village. This night’s festivities were going to be especially memorable. But 
first a bit of preparation was in order. He wanted nothing to interfere with his 
plans.
Greshym planted his bone stave into the soft loam of the forest floor. It stood 
straight. He waved his left hand over the top, his lips moving. A babe’s wail 
flowed out of the staff.
“Hush,” Greshym whispered. He reached out with the stump of his right hand. 
Darkness billowed like oily smoke from the plugged end of the hollow bone. He 
placed the stump of his wrist within the inky fog, intoning softly, weaving the 
spell he would use this night.
As he worked, the wailing from his staff suddenly took voice—but it was no babe. 
“I found you!” The voice echoed out into the darkening woods.
Greshym recognized the familiar rasp. “Shorkan,” he hissed, backing a step.
The smoke above his staff coalesced into a man’s face, eyes glowing red. Even 
amid the wisps, the Standi features were clear.
Black lips moved. “So you thought to escape the Master’s wrath by hiding in the 
woods.”
“I did escape,” Greshym spat back, reading the spell woven behind the smoky 
features. It was a mere search spell, nothing to fear. “And I will escape again. 
Before this night is over, I’ll have the power to hide from even the Black Heart 
himself.”
“So you believe.” There was a pause; then laughter flowed from far away. “Moon 
Lake, of course.”
Scowling, Greshym raised his stump and altered the spell before him, reversing 
it, tapping into Shorkan’s own energies. For a brief moment, he saw through the 
other mage’s eyes. The man was far from here—but not at Blackhall. Relieved, 
Greshym reached deeper into the spell, then suddenly was slammed with such force 
that he stumbled backward.
“Do not tread where you’re not welcome, Greshym.” The spell severed, and the 
smoky face dissolved.
“The same to you, you bastard,” Greshym muttered, but he knew Shorkan was 
already gone. He quickly cast up wards to prevent another penetration.
Greshym scowled at the staff as if it were to blame. It had been risky casting 
such a powerful spell, one easy to trace. He squinted off to the east as if he 
could peer through the mountains of the Teeth. “What are you doing in 
Winterfell?”
Though his nemesis was beyond the mountains, Greshym felt a trickle of worry 
wheedle into his confidence. He had sensed a dread certainty in the other mage, 
an amused lack of concern at what Greshym planned. “And what are you up to?”
With no answer, Greshym reached toward the staff, but he saw that a trace of the 
search spell still remained. He hesitated. He hated to waste magick. Greshym 
rewove the spell with the residual energy left behind by Shorkan. He waved his 
stumped wrist.
Smoke billowed out, then swirled back down. A new face formed, old and wrinkled, 
framed in scraggled white hair. Greshym reached toward the visage, brushing 
along a cheek. Ancient, decayed, dying…
There was little energy left in the spell, but Greshym reached deeper, trying to 
sense the man behind the fog. “Joach…” he whispered. “How does it feel, my boy, 
to wear a suit of sagging flesh and creaking bones?”
He divined the other was sleeping, napping away the late afternoon, back at 
A’loa Glen. Joach’s breath was a rasping wheeze, his heartbeat a palsied thud.
Greshym smiled and retreated. He dared not reach farther; the boy— or should he 
say, old man—was still potent in dream magicks. He dared not risk crossing into 
Joach’s dreams.
Once free, Greshym ended the spell and stared down at his own body, straight and 
hale. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
It was good to be young again… young with power!
Joach woke with a start, trembling all over. The sheets of his bed-ding were 
soaked with night sweat and clung to his frail form. The nightmare remained with 
him, vivid and real. He knew in his heart that it had been no ordinary dream. He 
felt along the edges of the memory. It did not have the starkness of a Weaving, 
a dream of portent. It was more like a real event.
“Greshym,” he mumbled to the empty room. The sweat on his body quickly chilled, 
sending shivers along his limbs. He glanced to the windows, where a soft breeze 
fluttered the draperies. The sun was already setting.
He dragged his feet to the floor with a groan. His exertions this past day and 
night had exhausted him. Muscles and joints protested each movement. But he knew 
that only the company of others would shake the cobwebs of the nightmare from 
his mind.
Joach reached for his staff, but as his palm touched the petrified wood, fiery 
pain shot up his arm to his heart. He doubled over with agony, gasping. He 
stared sideways at the staff. Its gray surface drained to pale white. Streaks of 
his own blood suffused the stony wood, flowing from the hand that still gripped 
it.
In his distraction, he had forgotten to don his glove, accidentally activating 
the blood weapon with the touch of his flesh. As the initial pain subsided, 
Joach dragged himself up. He lifted the staff. It was lighter, easier to 
manipulate—a boon of the magickal bonding. He also sensed the dream energy in 
the wood, waiting to be tapped. Like the staff, it seemed part of his body.
Joach pointed the staff and sent out a tendril of magick. A small rose grew from 
the half-filled washbasin. Joach remembered the last time he had willed such a 
creation into existence: the night desert, Sheeshon cradled between Kesla and 
himself, and a rose built of sand and dream to calm a frightened child.
Lowering the staff, Joach unbound his magick, and the flower fell back to 
nothingness. Not even a ripple marked the water of the basin.
Just a dream.
The memory of Kesla settled a dark melancholy over his spirit. Joach cradled the 
staff in the crook of an arm and removed his palm. He wanted nothing of dreams 
right now.
With the connection broken, the staff faded from ivory back to dull gray. Joach 
slipped a glove over his hand and took up the staff again. He crossed to his 
wooden wardrobe. Done with dreams and nightmares, he wanted the company of real 
people.
Still, as he dressed, the dregs of his nightmare remained. Joach again saw the 
darkmage Greshym standing in a forest glade, surrounded by offal and torn 
bodies. A white staff stood planted before him, topped by a cloud of inky 
darkness. Then those eyes had turned toward him, gleeful yet full of spite. But 
the worst terror of the dream was the darkmage’s appearance: golden-brown hair, 
smooth skin, strong arms, straight spine, eyes so very bright. Joach saw his own 
youth mocking him, so close yet impossible to touch.
Sighing, he settled his cloak in place and crossed to the door, bumping across 
the stones with his staff. He tightened his gloved fingers on the petrified wood 
and sensed the magick therein; it helped center his spirit. One day, he would 
find Greshym and take back what was his.
As Joach reached the door, someone knocked on the other side. Frowning, he 
opened the door to find a young page. The lad bowed. “Master Joach, your sister 
bids you join her in the Grand Courtyard.”
“Why?”
His question seemed to stymie the youngster, whose eyes grew wide. “Sh-she did 
not say, sir.”
“Fine. Shall I follow you?”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.” The lad all but sprang away, like a frightened 
rabbit.
Joach followed, thumping along. He knew the way to the courtyard. The page 
paused at the stairs leading down to the central part of the keep, looking back. 
Joach read impatience in his stance… and the vague glint of fear in his eyes. He 
knew what the boy saw. Joach had once walked these same halls himself, a young 
aide to a decrepit figure. But now the roles were reversed. Joach was no longer 
the boy. The page disappeared down the stairs.
Joach was now the ancient one, bitter and full of black thoughts. “I shall have 
my day,” he vowed to the empty hall.
As THE LAST RAYS OF THE SUN MELTED INTO TWILIGHT, ElENA STOOD IN THE
Grand Courtyard with the others, studying the koa’kona sapling. It seemed a 
frail thing, dwarfed by the towering stone walls, towers, and battlements of the 
castle. But its buds were as black as oil, seeming to drip from the stems that 
held them. Elena pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders.
“It draws the heat,” Nee’lahn whispered from a few steps to the right. “Like the 
Grim.”
Elena had heard the stories of the wraiths of the Dire Fell, shadowy spirits 
that could suck the lifeforce from all they touched.
“Hush,” Meric said at Nee’lahn’s side. “It’s just the tidal breezes, nothing 
more.”
Meric nodded to Elena. When the elv’in prince had brought word of the tree’s 
strange budding, Elena had agreed heartily that no harm should come to the tree 
until its true nature could be discerned, especially as the boy’s life hung in 
the balance.
Not all had agreed. “We risk much to spare a single life,” Er’ril had argued. 
But Elena had refused to act hastily, and Er’ril had bowed to her will. Still, 
he now stood beside her with an ax in one hand. Two guards stood beyond him, 
armed with pails of pitch and burning torches. Er’ril was taking no chances that 
magick alone would win out here if something evil arose.
Elena was also taking no extra risks. She had the Blood Diary in a satchel over 
her shoulder. This was the first night of the full moon. With its light, the 
book would open the path to the Void, allowing Elena to call upon the 
unfathomable powers of the book’s spirits. Elena shuddered in the cooling 
evening. She would call upon this well of magicks only if needed.
“The moon rises,” a voice said behind her.
Startled out of her reverie, she turned to find Harlequin Quail standing on the 
gravel path behind her. Not a single bell of the hundreds he wore had jingled at 
his approach. He stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His pale 
bluish skin shone in the torchlight. “What’re you doing here?” Er’ril snapped.
Harlequin shrugged, pulled a pipe from a pocket, and began to light the tamped 
tobacco. “I heard about the kid and his tree. I came to offer what support I 
can.”
“We have more than enough help,” Er’ril said with a scowl. “Then maybe I just 
came out for a moonlight stroll.” His pipe blew to flame. He shifted slightly, 
putting his back to the plainsman.
Elena frowned at Er’ril and reached to touch Harlequin’s elbow. Earlier, he had 
left too quickly for her to voice her appreciation for the risks he’d taken to 
bring his dire news. She could at least acknowledge his concern here. “Thank 
you,” she said.
He nodded, his gold eyes shining, unreadable. Behind him the wide door of the 
courtyard banged open, and a dark shadow emerged. A flicker of fright flashed 
through her.
Harlequin glanced over his shoulder. “Your brother, is it not?” Elena saw the 
man was correct. She had sent a page to fetch Joach. Of them all, her brother 
was the one most familiar with the black arts. If there was foulness afoot here, 
then his guidance could prove useful. Her brother shambled over, leaning heavily 
upon the staff. “Looks like he could be your grandfather,” Harlequin mumbled 
around the stem of his pipe.
Joach had not heard the small man’s words. Elena forced her expression to remain 
bland. Even after so long, the sight of her brother aged and decrepit shook her. 
“Thank you for coming, Joach.” She introduced Harlequin Quail.
Her brother nodded, eyeing the stranger with suspicion. Between Er’ril and 
Joach, it was hard to say who was more jaded and distrustful. “So what’s wrong, 
El?” he asked, turning back to her. She quickly explained. Joach’s gaze shifted 
to the tree, studying it with squinted eyes.
“It was good you sent for me,” he said as she finished. “Whatever magick broods 
in these dark buds, we’d best be wary.”
She turned back to the tree. “We’ve weapons both magickal and not.”
Joach took in the axes and pails of pitch. “Good, good.” He rubbed his hand 
along the haft of his staff. She noted the calfskin glove. Since his aging, 
Joach had been becoming more and more susceptible to the cold.
Nee’lahn stepped forward, Rodricko at her side. “It’s time. The first full moon 
of summer is near to rising.”
Elena glanced past the castle walls. Half the moon’s full face glowed silver on 
the horizon. It would not be long. She stripped off her own gloves, exposing the 
ruby rose of her power. Each hand, from the wrist down, whorled with crimson 
hues. Elena clenched her fingers and willed the wild magicks in her blood to her 
hands. Deep inside, a chorus of power rang brighter; she balanced and bent that 
power to her command. Her right fist glowed brighter with the fire of the rising 
sun, her left took on the azure hues of the moon itself: wit’ch fire and 
coldfire.
Reaching to her waist, she slid out the silver-and-ebony dagger, its hilt carved 
into a rose—her wit’ch dagger. She readied the sharp edge to release the magick 
inside her, to channel the vast energy of the Void into this world.
But first she nicked the tip of a finger, closed her eyes, and daubed the blood 
on her lids. A flash of fire flared across her vision with a familiar burn. She 
opened her eyes and looked upon a new world. All was as it was before, but now 
the hidden traceries of magick became visible to her spell-cast eyes. She noted 
the silver flicker of elemental fire in Nee’lahn, Meric, even the boy.
But it was the tree that held her attention.
What was once wood and greenery now blazed with inner fire. Channels of power 
ran up the trunk, branching into its limbs, splitting into stems. Pure elemental 
energy surged up from the land itself, the magick of root and loam.
She had never imagined such power in the small tree. Each bloom was a torch of 
magick, burning brighter than any star.
She began to doubt her choice in sparing the tree.
Er’ril sensed her distress. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, biting back her trepidation. If she voiced her doubts, she suspected 
Er’ril would call for the tree’s immediate destruction. So instead, she simply 
waved forward.
Nee’lahn knelt by the boy, whispering in his ear. Rodricko nodded his head, his 
eyes on the tree, as he wriggled out of his boots.
As he struggled, Elena studied him. A strong flame of elemental fire blazed in 
his chest. But stranger still, Elena recognized the bonds between boy and 
sapling. Silver filaments connected the tree’s vast energy to
° the flicker inside the child’s heart. Elena knew Nee’lahn was right. The two 
were clearly bonded. If the sapling was destroyed, Rodricko would surely fade.
Free of his boots, the boy straightened.
Glancing to the sky, Nee’lahn leaned back on her heels, her face a mask of 
worry. The moon continued its climb among the stars. The night was perfectly 
clear. Only a bit of sea mist feathered the horizons.
“Go, Rodricko,” Nee’lahn said, shifting her small lute forward. “Waken your 
tree.”
The boy crossed the open loam, his feet sinking into the soft dirt. Under the 
branches of the tree, Rodricko lifted his hands to a single closed bud. He did 
not touch its dark petals but only cupped his tiny palms around it.
The bloom swelled with brightness. Silver moonlight bathed the courtyard.
“Sing,” Nee’lahn whispered. “The moon is risen full.”
Rodricko craned his neck, his boyish features limned in moonlight and shadow. 
Though his lips did not move, a sweet sound flowed from him. It sounded like the 
whistle of wind through heavy branches, a soft sighing of notes, the shushed 
fall of autumn leaves.
Nee’lahn clutched both her hands to her neck, frightened yet proud.
Elena was sure that whatever chorus she heard herself was but a single note 
compared to what the nyphai woman could hear. The play of magick in the tree was 
brilliant. Power quickened in the tree and boy. The silver traceries connecting 
the two grew more substantial. New filaments arced gracefully from the tree and 
flowed into the boy.
His singing became louder, fuller, deeper.
“It’s happening,” Nee’lahn said.
Er’ril stirred beside her, hefting his ax into readiness. Elena did not doubt 
that Er’ril could cleave the trunk with a single swing.
A flicker of elemental fire drew her attention momentarily to the other side. 
Joach had shuffled closer for a better look, his bleary eyes squinted. But the 
staff he leaned upon was a shaft of pure flame, a font of immense elemental 
energy. She stared at Joach, not understanding. Her brother, an elemental tied 
to the magick of the dream, also bore the familiar silver flame near his heart. 
Yet, Elena could see fiery strands linking her brother to the staff. She opened 
her mouth to voice her surprise.
Nee’lahn interrupted. “The flowers bloom!”
Elena’s attention shifted back to the tree; she would question Joach later about 
this strange play of power.
At the sapling, a miraculous transformation was under way. Elemental fire flared 
between boy and tree. Rodricko was consumed in this blinding fire. From the lack 
of response in the others, Elena guessed she was the only one to see the flow of 
magick here. Even Nee’lahn knelt in the boy’s shadow, tense and fearful.
Rodricko continued to sing, cupping the flower. Between his raised palms, the 
single bud began to peel its petals back, blooming in the moonlight.
Each flower on the tree followed suit, and plumes of elemental energy flowed out 
of the dark petals, vibrating with the boy’s song. Elena could almost hear 
another voice, singing in harmony. Treesong, she realized with amazement.
“The flowers glow,” Er’ril murmured at her side.
Elena forced her own vision to see past the flames of silvery energy. The dark 
blooms were indeed glowing in the night. Black petals had opened to fiery 
hearts, red as molten rock.
Cries, first low, then louder, rose from the tree. But they weren’t screams of 
pain, but of release and joy.
“What’s happening?” Er’ril said, the guards behind him holding the pitch and 
torches ready.
Using her spellcast sight, Elena watched as bursts of energy shot forth from 
each bloom, spheres of azure brilliance, sailing up into the air, different than 
the silvery elemental energy of root and loam. This was something new. And the 
echoing cries were coming from these shining orbs.
Nee’lahn answered the plainsman’s query. “The blooms… they’re casting forth bits 
of lifeforce. I can hear the song of the living set free.”
“I see it, too,” Elena said. “Energy being cast toward the full moon.” She 
watched the flow of energy sailing toward the face of the full moon, a river of 
lifeforce.
“It’s from the Grim,” Nee’lahn whispered, hushed. Her words were not spoken with 
horror but with awe. “It’s all the lives that my sisterhood consumed, set free 
at long last.” Her voice dropped further. “No wonder Cecelia fought so hard for 
her son—she must have known. A small way to make peace with the evil sown by the 
wraiths.”
The streaming flow of glowing orbs wound toward the evening skies.
Meric helped Nee’lahn to her feet. The pair drifted closer.
Elena joined them in observing the spectacle, quiet celebrants as the spirits 
were set free. She watched with two sets of eyes. One saw the tree, blooming and 
aglow. Another saw the sapling ablaze with energy, twined with Rodricko, while 
overhead a river of spiritual power sailed skyward.
“The flowers are changing,” Er’ril said at her side.
As each bloom cast its last azure energy toward the moon, the blossom’s petals 
softened in color, fading from midnight black to violet—the true color of a 
koa’kona bloom. Only their hearts remained fiery red, both a reminder of and 
testimony to the penance done here this night.
With relief, Elena watched the silvery river flow into the night sky, sung 
skyward by the boy.
Harlequin cut into her wonder, his voice sharp with concern. “The moon—what’s 
wrong with the moon!”
Sy-wen sat across the library table from Brother Ryn. The white-robed monk 
crouched over the ebon’stone egg, a pair of tiny spectacles perched on the tip 
of his nose. Still he squinted through a chunk of lens in his hand. “Most 
strange,” he muttered. “Come see, lass.”
She moved to his side. The pair had spent the afternoon in the castle’s main 
library, searching the dusty scrolls and rat-nibbled tomes for any mention of 
such stones, but they had learned little that they did not already know. The 
stone fed on blood, powering some ancient magick that was poorly understood. It 
was not elemental energy, but neither was it Chyric, like the Weir.
After their long search, they decided to concentrate their energies on the egg 
itself. The captain’s logbook still rested by the library’s hearth, drying. The 
library’s chief caretaker warned against opening the sodden book. “The ink’ll 
smear for sure. She must be dried first, cover to cover, before risking a 
reading.”
Sy-wen glanced to the logbook. It rested on a rack beside the hearth, not so 
close as to risk burning, but near enough to dry. “The morning at the soonest,” 
the caretaker had warned before leaving. “Perhaps not even then.”
That left only the egg itself as a source of information.
As Sy-wen joined Brother Ryn, he rubbed a palm over his shaven head. “There is 
still too much we don’t know about its substance, this black stone. But see,” he 
said, and passed his flat disc of magnifying crystal. He pointed to the egg. 
“Look here. Closely.”
She bent with the crystal before her eyes. “What am I looking for?”
Brother Ryn traced a finger along a vein of silver. He did not touch the stone 
itself—neither of them dared. During their earlier examinations, they had 
shifted the loathsome thing with copper tongs from the tools by the hearth. 
“Notice this line of silver here.”
“So?” Sy-wen did not understand the significance. The ebon’stone was jagged with 
veins of silver that forked across its smooth surface like lightning against a 
night sky. “It looks like all the others.”
“Hmm… look closer, lass. From the side, if you will.”
She shifted slightly, glancing at the egg from a different angle. Then a gasp of 
surprise escaped her: This vein was not flush with the stone’s surface, as the 
others were. The silver thread was imbedded slightly deeper. “What is it?”
He leaned nearer. “See how this vein runs in a complete circle around the egg? 
Other lines jaggedly cross its path, attempting to deceive the eye. But this 
main line zigzags around the egg’s circumference—one unending circle.”
She followed his finger. He was right! “What does it mean?”
He straightened, accepting back the glass from her. “I’d say that we’re looking 
at the way to open the egg—the proverbial crack in the shell.”
Sy-wen cringed back. “A way to open it?” She could not even imagine what horror 
might be hidden inside, what sickness could be germinating. She suddenly wished 
Kast were here. But he had left with Hunt and the high keel, to begin the plans 
for the coming assault.
Brother Ryn glanced to the book drying by the hearth. “If only we had more 
information about this cursed thing.”
She nodded. “Like a way to destroy it.”
The old scholar turned back to the egg. “Or to judge the danger it poses.”
“The only way to know that would be to open it—and we dare not do that.”
Brother Ryn glanced to her. She read the burning curiosity in his eyes. “We 
can’t face what we don’t know.”
She bit her lip. There were another hundred of the horrible things near the dock 
of A’loa Glen. Before they chanced moving the wreck, they had to know what was 
at risk. “But we don’t have a clue on how to unlock the stone.”
Brother Ryn voiced it aloud. “The stone feeds on blood. Blood must be the key.”
Her attention on the dark stone, she sensed the truth to his words. “But the key 
to what?”
Greshym stood under a maple tree near the water’s edge. Ahead, the great expanse 
of Moon Lake stretched to the horizons, a dark mirror reflecting the rising full 
moon. Already hundreds of celebrants lined the banks, waiting for the moment 
when the moon would reach its highest point and shine down into the center of 
the lake.
For as long as Greshym could remember, the ritual of the First Moon had been 
performed here, a custom that dated back into Alasea’s distant past. No one knew 
for sure how or why this observance had first started. The accounts of the 
origin were as many as they were varied. But one common thread ran through all 
the stories: On the first moon of summer, the face of the Mother above would 
appear in the waters and grant wishes to those who bathed in the lake and were 
true of heart.
And that was the catch, Greshym thought sourly: to be true of heart.
Each celebration, scores of participants declared their wishes granted, beating 
their chests and dropping to their knees. But Greshym suspected all were lying 
or deluded. Who would be foolish enough to claim their wish wasn’t fulfilled, 
lest their own heart be questioned? So each year, the hordes came with their 
aching joints, their ailing spouses, their secret loves… all to jump in a cold, 
mossy lake.
“So much foolishness,” Greshym mumbled, for only he knew the true secret of the 
lake. And he meant to have his own wish granted, even if it meant the death of 
every person here.
Behind him, he heard Rukh stir from his hiding place in a scrabble-berry bush. 
The stump gnome was growing as impatient as its master.
Tinkling music wafted over the waters as a flotilla of sails drifted past on the 
calm lake, bearing those few whose purses bulged with gold. Past his spot, one 
of largest barges floated, decorated with fanciful carvings, silk sails, and 
lanterns shaped like the moon in all its phases. It seemed only the rich were 
granted such close communion with the mysterious lady of the lake.
But this was not a night for only those with money. All around the shoreline, 
torches and colored lanterns brightened the water’s edge, lighting the way for 
the other celebrants. A few children already splashed in the shallows, too 
excited to wait. Their calls echoed like sharp bells, ringing out with joy and 
delight. The smells from the hundreds of cooking fires filled the crisp summer 
night with the aromas of charred meats and fragrant stews.
Greshym straightened, knowing his long wait was almost over. The moon was near 
its highest point. “Rukh!”
The stump gnome crawled on his belly out of the bush.
They crossed the short distance to their lone stretch of beach. Greshym had 
assured their privacy with a small repulsion spell attached to this spit of land 
extending out into the lake.
He used a small dagger to dig out the dried clay that plugged the top of his 
hollow bone staff. His lips moved in a silent spell. He touched the magick in 
the newborn’s blood, the babe’s innocent lifeforce. It was his to command.
Around the lake, a hush fell over the crowd. Somewhere in the distance a baby 
wailed. Did it sense the blood of its brother?
Greshym held out his staff, pointing the open end of the bone toward the wide 
lake. Upon the water’s surface, the moon’s reflection continued to glow, but as 
the moon reached its highest point, the magick of this night began. The 
reflected face of the moon began to shine brighter, almost blinding to stare 
upon. Its glow spread to cover the entire lake, turning dark waters to silver.
A cry rose from the crowd. As one, the celebrants cast themselves into the 
waters: some naked, some clothed, the young, the old. Some went silently, some 
with pleas shouted to the skies.
Greshym simply smiled—and spoke the last part of the enchantment.
He lowered the tip of his staff to the lake and spilled the spellcast blood upon 
the bright waters. The stain spread out from his spit of land. No one noticed 
the blasphemy to the ceremony. All were too busy with their own heartfelt 
wishes.
The wash of blood expanded, sweeping toward the center of the lake.
What none of the folk here knew was that the waters of Moon Lake were steeped in 
the elemental magick of pure light, making it a potent well that filled only 
this one night when the moon was in the perfect position for the waters to 
absorb its silvery magick. The lake became a font of immense power, energy from 
the Void itself. The sense of contentment felt by the bathers was nothing more 
than the intimate wash of this energy over their bodies, mixing their lifeforces 
with the energy of the Void.
But with the dawn, the effect would quickly fade. Moon energy could not 
withstand the burn of the sun. And Greshym would not let this font of energy go 
to waste, not when he had such powerful enemies.
He touched the tip of his staff to the stain in the waters, speaking the spell 
to draw the lake’s power into the hollow bone. As the staff filled with strength 
a thousandfold, the stain continued to spread over the lake. It would take most 
of the night to siphon off all the power here.
Greshym’s lips split into a hard smile as he worked.
Off to the left, a group of boisterous bathers failed to notice the dark stain 
sweeping toward them. As the silver waters turned black around them, song and 
merriment turned to wails and cries.
Greshym watched as the lifeforces of these folk, submerged in the elemental 
power of the waters, were ripped from their racked bodies. For the briefest 
moments, their life energy could be seen trying to escape: Ghosts of azure light 
skated across the dark surface before being sucked away, drowned in the 
spellcast waters.
As Greshym continued to draw off this energy, other bathers were caught in the 
wave of darkness. The stain overtook the moon-lantern barge. A cry of distress 
arose from the captain of the doomed vessel. His wards, already enjoying the 
waters, were deaf to his calls. They were consumed by the darkness. Even the 
boat began to sink, its hull no longer adrift on plain water, but sliding under 
a sea of dark magick.
Deep laughter flowed from Greshym. He appreciated the hearty sound of his own 
mirth. With the power here, no one could thwart him.
A sharp cry sounded from far across the lake. “Look to the moon!”
Greshym glanced up to the night skies, and his smile screwed down into a frown. 
The face of the full moon shone as bright as before, but now a crimson scar 
marked its center, streaming outward in rivulets.
“The moon bleeds!” someone shouted.
Greshym watched the stain begin to stream down toward the lake.
“What is this magick?” he mumbled. It was no effect of his spell. And if not, 
then whose? He remembered Shorkan’s mirth. “The bastard…”
He pulled his staff from the waters, readying himself to either fight or flee.
All around the lake cries echoed, “The moon! The moon!”
“What’s happening to the moon?” Er’ril asked. He stepped close to Elena, 
watching her frown as she gazed up into the evening sky.
She leaned near. “I don’t know. ”
Directly overhead, the full moon bled streams of fiery crimson. The trails 
seemed to flow toward them.
“The corruption seems to be flowing down the stream of spirit energy rising from 
the tree,” Elena said. “Back toward us.”
Meric stood with Nee’lahn. She cradled her lute to her chest, face staring 
upward with horror. Harlequin and Joach joined them, frowning at the night 
skies.
The only one oblivious to the spectacle above was little Rodricko. He continued 
to sing to his tree, while the glowing blooms continued to shed their darkness 
and shine with a pure violet brilliance.
“Is it something the boy is doing?” Er’ril asked. “Should we stop him?”
Nee’lahn heard his question. “No. He must finish the ritual.”
“This can’t be the boy’s fault,” Meric said. “Something else is amiss here.”
“What?” Er’ril asked.
“I know a way to find out,” Elena said, shifting around. She tugged at the 
satchel over her shoulder. “The Blood Diary.”
She pulled the tome from the bag. The gilt rose on its leather cover glowed 
bright silver, matching the moonlight. She prepared to open the book.
Er’ril reached out, placing a palm atop the shining rose. “The Blood Diary is 
tied to the moon, and now the moon bleeds. Perhaps we should think before 
opening the path to the Void.”
Elena looked him in the eye. “Whatever evil arises here, it has something to do 
with the moon. If there are answers, Cho may be the only one to divine them.”
Er’ril slowly nodded. “Be careful.” Ever since the events in Gul’gotha when Cho 
had possessed Elena, he had been wary of the book’s spirits, fearing that Cho 
had neither Elena’s nor Alasea’s best interests at heart. The spirit’s 
single-minded pursuit of Chi, her spiritual twin, overwhelmed any concern for 
this land or its people.
Elena squeezed Er’ril’s hand, silently thanking him for his concern. For a 
moment, he felt the power coursing under the ruby skin of her palm— energy from 
Cho. Then the young woman broke contact, turning away.
Elena lifted her book, took a deep breath, and opened the leather cover. Neither 
of them were ready for the explosion of light that followed. Elena was knocked 
back, but Er’ril caught her. He managed a glimpse of the book’s pages. Instead 
of white parchment, the book was a window into another existence. Beyond the 
Blood Diary, stars blazed against an inky darkness. Clouds of radiant mists 
glided around orbs churning with the energies of the endless Void.
Elena regained her feet. The plume of light from the book sailed high, then 
arced and landed on the courtyard path beside them. The figure of a woman 
quickly took shape, sculpted of light and energy. Clothed in glowing moonstone 
that swirled with energies not of this world, the woman turned her face toward 
Elena. Burning suns raged behind her eyes. “What is this desecration?” Cho cried 
out.
“We don’t know,” Er’ril answered, trying to match her stern tone.
g
“It is why we called you forth,” Elena added.
Cho stared up to the skies, then down to the tree. “A bridge,” she said, her 
anger still bright. “A new spirit bridge has opened!”
The others in the courtyard gathered near, silent witnesses.
“A spirit bridge?” Er’ril asked.
Elena stepped free of his arms. “Maybe we should speak to Fila,” she suggested, 
referring to her own aunt. Er’ril understood Elena’s request: her aunt’s ghost 
was also a bridge between worlds.
Cho glanced once more at the moon, then, without even moving, she seemed to 
melt. Her shoulders relaxed, and her movement as she turned back to them was 
more natural. The shine of the Void was gone from her eyes.
“Child,” she said warmly, “how do you fare?”
“Aunt Fila…” Elena’s voice caught in her throat.
Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder, supporting her. “What’s happening to the 
moon ?”
The ghostly figure glanced across the courtyard. “Cho was right. The release of 
spirits from the tree has formed a temporary link between the Void and this 
world. It is the same as my spirit, a connection between two planes.” She turned 
back to them. “But the link here is not fixed, the way I am fixed to the magick 
of the Blood Diary. Once the flow of spirits from the koa’kona ceases, the 
bridge will end.”
“But what about the moon?” Elena asked.
Overhead, the moon had grown almost a solid bloodred, streaming fiery trails 
toward them.
Aunt Fila frowned and motioned Elena to lift one hand. The ruby hue of her Rose 
matched the color of the moon. “With the bridge open, energy bleeds from the 
Void to here.”
“But why?” Elena asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Neither does Cho. It shouldn’t be happening. Cho is panicked. It 
is as if something has rent a huge tear in the fabric of her world. It bleeds 
into ours now.”
“What danger does that pose?” Er’ril asked.
The ghost of Aunt Fila shook her head. “If that energy reaches us, it could burn 
our world to a cinder, or warp the weave of our own existence.” Her gaze flicked 
to the tree. “The bridge must be severed.”
“But it’s almost over.” Nee’lahn said, stepping forward. “Already the last of 
the dark blooms brighten.”
Er’ril saw she was right. Only a handful of blooms remained dark, shining their 
fiery hearts skyward. Still, if the fate of the world teetered here…
He gripped his ax tighter in his hand.
“Can we block the Void’s energy?” Elena asked, clearly seeking an alternative to 
risking Rodricko.
“Not without knowing why this rupture occurred.”
“But if we don’t know what’s causing it,” Elena argued, “who’s to say that 
severing the bridge will stop what’s happening?”
Aunt Fila’s brows knit together. Elena’s question clearly disturbed her. “You 
may be right. That answer must be discovered first. I must consult Cho.” She 
turned away.
Elena glanced to Er’ril. He took her hand, but he kept his grip on the ax. A few 
steps away, Meric consoled Nee’lahn. Beyond them, a lone boy sang to his tree. 
For a moment, in the boy’s song, Er’ril felt the cusp of fate. For just this 
instant—with the tableau of players gathered here, the charged flows of 
power—Er’ril sensed that this very moment was ordained from the forging of the 
Blood Diary ages ago.
Where did the future go from here?
Finally, after a long silence, Aunt Fila turned back to them. Her eyes were 
again aglow with the icy fires of the Void: Cho was back. She turned those empty 
eyes toward Elena. “/ have read the aether. Energy flows into the Void.” She 
pointed back to the tree, indicating the flow of spirits, then turned back to 
the crimson moon. “But something also draws it bac’t out.”
Elena frowned. “Draws it back out?”
Cho’s moonstone face threatened to crack. She motioned with ghostly hands, 
trying to put into words something that had no words. “Two flows. One moving in, 
one out—all at the same place.” Again the flicker of her gaze to the moon. 
“Energy churns.” She wrung her hands for emphasis.
“A riptide?” Er’ril asked.
Cho cocked her head, as if listening to something inside her. “Tides… moon… 
riptide. Fila understands. Yes… riptides.”
Elena frowned. “But why? If the spiritual energy is going in, what’s drawing the 
Void’s energy out?”
Cho’s form shimmered, her features blurring. Er’ril had enough experience with 
the spirit to know when it was angered. “/ know not!” she cried out. “But I 
will!”
“How?” Elena asked.
Again Cho cocked her head, but this time as if the question made no sense… or 
the answer was too plain to speak. “/ return to the Void.” The moonstone 
apparition swirled upward.
“Wait!” Elena called out. “What do you mean?”
Cho half turned, shimmering between form and pure energy. “This desecration 
risks everything… myself, my brother, both our worlds. I must go.”
o
The spirit swept toward the tree in a swirl of light, a woman-shaped comet. She 
spiraled up the branches and into the sky above. “She’s floating in the river of 
spirits,” Elena said, staring up. As Er’ril watched, the glow of Cho stretched 
toward both the tree and the moon, elongating into a shimmering cord. It seemed 
to hover there for an interminable time, trembling, threatening to break.
Then with a noise unheard by the ears but that vibrated the hairs on Er’ril’s 
arms, the cord snapped—and Cho was gone.
Silence hung like a heavy fog in the aftermath of the display. Joach was the 
first to speak. “The koa’kona is spent.” All eyes turned toward the tree. Er’ril 
realized the silence from a moment ago had been complete. Rodricko had stopped 
singing and had slumped to his knees before the tree. Er’ril studied the 
sapling. Each and every bloom now glowed violet, a spray of brilliant jewels in 
a sea of dark green. Not a single bloom remained dark.
“It’s over,” Nee’lahn said, shaking with relief. “All the trapped spirits have 
been set free.”
“But the moon still bleeds,” Harlequin said.
Er’ril glanced skyward. The moon indeed remained stained. The tear in the Void 
was still open. Elena had been right. Severing the bridge had not stopped the 
danger.
Elena suddenly gasped behind him.
He turned to her. She was not staring at the moon like the others, but down to 
the Blood Diary in her hand. The book hung open in her trembling grip.
“The pages…” she mumbled, holding out the tome. Er’ril stared. Plain white 
parchment shone in the torchlight. The Void had vanished from the book.
Deep in the castle, Kast hurried with Prince Tyrus. He had been urgently 
summoned away from his meeting with the Dre’rendi keelchiefs. Sy-wen’s note 
warned that Brother Ryn had discovered something about the ebon’stone egg, and 
they needed his immediate help. Tyrus had also been at the meeting to coordinate 
his pirate brigade, but he accompanied Kast now because of the man trailing them 
both.
“Xin, are you sure?” Tyrus asked again.
The zo’ol tribesman nodded. “I sensed a darkness, a well of sickness. A flicker, 
like a darkfire candle… Then it was gone. But it was no imagining. It was real.”
Kast frowned back at the shaman. The small man was bare-chested. A single braid 
of hair trailed over one shoulder, decorated with feathers and bits of shell. 
His dark skin glowed ebony in the dim halls, making the pale scar of a rising 
sun on his brow seem to shine with its own light. Kast knew the jungle shaman 
could read another’s heart; this empathy opened paths to others, even far away.
Tyrus pointed to the stairwell opening ahead. “We must let Elena and Er’ril know 
of this.”
Kast scowled. “I’ll see what Sy-wen has discovered and join you in the 
courtyard. Perhaps the darkness has to do with that tree.”
Tyrus turned toward the stairway, waving Xin to follow. Kast prepared to head 
the other direction toward the castle’s libraries, but a cry sounded behind him. 
He swung around in time to see the zo’ol shaman collapse. Both Tyrus and Kast 
went to his aid.
“What’s wrong?” the pirate prince asked.
Xin panted, his face contorted in pain. “The darkness… stronger…” He lifted an 
arm. “It comes from that way.”
He pointed not to the stairs, but to the passage Kast had been about to take.
Tyrus met his gaze. “Could it be the egg?”
“It must,” Kast said. Fear for Sy-wen fired his blood. He passed the tribesman 
to the prince. “Tell Elena.”
Tyrus nodded.
Xin shook his head, like casting out cobwebs. “It’s gone again… but…”
Kast hesitated. “But what?”
Xin glanced up to the two other men. “It… it felt familiar…” He shook his head. 
“I don’t know.”
“And I don’t have time,” Kast said sharply, and set off down the corridor. He 
dared wait no longer. The library was on the other side of the castle, beneath 
the observatory tower. If Sy-wen was in danger…
“Be careful,” Tyrus called after him.
He increased his speed, running now. He pounded down the hall, careening around 
a series of bends, almost knocking down a chambermaid with an armful of folded 
linen. He had no time for apologies. He leaped a short flight of stairs, all but 
flying up them as if he already bore his dragon wings. The heavy oaken doors of 
the library were just ahead.
He reached the doors and pulled on the latch. It resisted. Locked. Panicked with 
imagined terrors, he pounded a fist on the door. “Sy-wen!”
There was no answer.
He pounded again, searching around for something to batter down the door.
“Kast?” Sy-wen’s voice called from beyond the locked library doors. His knees 
weakened with relief as he heard the lock’s bolt slide. Then the door swung 
open.
Sy-wen stared out at him. “What are you doing pounding—?” Then she must have 
noticed his panting breath and pale face. “What’s wrong?”
Kast pushed into the library, searching intently, breathing hard.
“Has something happened?” Sy-wen asked behind him, closing the door.
Down the aisle between the row after row of stacked shelves, a group of 
white-robed scholars crowded around a hearthside table. The entire library staff 
must have been summoned. One of the men glanced back to him and waved—Brother 
Ryn. Kast exhaled loudly, relieved. Nothing appeared amiss.
Sy-wen touched his shoulder. “Kast, tell me. What is it?”
He shook his head. “I… I thought something happened.”
Sy-wen frowned, moving next to him and walking him toward the other end of the 
library. “Why would you think that?”
“Your urgent note… something Shaman Xin felt.” He pulled Sy-wen closer to him 
and kissed the top of her head. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”
She placed an arm around his waist as they reached the scholars.
Brother Ryn waved him toward the table, bumping his colleagues aside to make 
room for the large Bloodrider. “You must see this. Extraordinary, really.” He 
pushed his glasses back from the tip of his nose.
Kast moved closer, but still it took him half a shocked breath to understand 
what he saw. Two oval bowls lay on the table. Each was jagged-edged and made of 
ebon’stone. Not two bowls, he realized, but two halves of the same shell. “You 
opened it!” he gasped out.
“It wasn’t hard,” Sy-wen said at his shoulder, her arm still around his waist. 
“It just took a little blood.” She pointed toward one of the scholars, a young 
acolyte from his yellow sash, slumped by the far wall. His white robe was a 
stained ruin down the front. His throat had been sliced. “Actually more than a 
little blood, before we were through,” Sy-wen said.
Kast jerked backward, but the arm at his waist locked around him, impossibly 
strong. He struggled harder, but other hands grabbed him from behind, clamping 
like iron. “What… ?” he finally managed to gasp out.
Brother Ryn stepped toward Sy-wen. “A dragon that is ours to command. You’ve 
done well, my dear.”
Sy-wen slipped her arm from around Kast’s waist, turning to face him while the 
others held him tight.
Brother Ryn lifted his hand. He clutched a gelatinous creature in his palm. 
Tentacles writhed over the man’s wrist and forearm. One stretched toward Kast, 
blind and groping. A suckered mouth at the tip puckered open.
Kast paled.
“Do you recognize this little creature?” Brother Ryn asked.
Kast had indeed heard stories of such monsters. Its ilk had possessed the minds 
of a shipload of Port Rawl pirates. Elena and her allies had barely escaped 
alive.
Ryn lifted his prize. “The Master has improved on their form. A new generation.”
“We’ve saved the last one for you,” Sy-wen said.
Kast strained to pull away.
“But there are another hundred eggs down under the sea,” Brother Ryn said. “Each 
a vessel for a score of these creatures.”
“And we’re going to fetch them for our Master,” Sy-wen said. “You and I.”
“Never,” he spat.
“You have no choice, my love.” She reached toward Kast’s cheek, her voice a 
mocking whisper. “I have need of you.”
Greshym stared at the bleeding moon, rivers of crimson flowing out and down.
Under its sickly glow, cries rose all around the lake. Bathers splashed toward 
shore. In the trees, torches flared brighter from lakeside camps, and the merry 
music died away. Sails fled the center of the lake. The waters were being 
abandoned.
Even Rukh was disturbed by the moon’s appearance. The stump gnome groveled and 
whined, digging troughs in the mud with his hooves and claws.
Greshym raised his bone staff, attempting to discern the danger to himself. 
Across the lake, the blood spell continued its course across the silver waters, 
continuing to absorb the moonlight trapped here. Eventually he would need to 
claim this energy for himself, but right now, he maintained his guard.
In the center of the lake, the reflection of the moon marked the brightest spot 
in the silver waters. Even this mirrored image bore the bloodred stain.
Holding his breath, Greshym watched the tide of his own dark magick encroach 
upon the marred reflection. He was not sure what would happen when the two 
merged. He sensed a vastness of power in those corrupted waters. The elemental 
properties of Moon Lake had absorbed even the energy of this strange phenomenon.
As his dark spell swept through the silver waters toward the crimson, a ghostly 
shimmer rose from the lake, an azure mist. Greshym frowned. What was this?
The mist swirled for a breath upon unseen winds, then wrapped down upon itself. 
The figure of a woman took shape at its heart, standing in the center of the 
moon’s reflection, in the heart of the ruby stain. Slowly she spun in place, 
studying the edges of the lake.
Greshym was not the only one to notice her appearance. “It’s the Lady of the 
Lake!” someone called out. Shouts of surprise followed this cry. Eyes turned 
toward the miracle. The panic from a moment ago died to awe and amazement. A 
hushed moment of expectation settled around the lake.
Was this truly the Lady of the Lake?
Greshym studied her as the tide of his own magick flowed ever closer to the 
crimson waters.
The ghostly woman swung to face in Greshym’s direction—and though the distance 
was far, he sensed her gaze fall upon him. An arm slowly raised, pointing, 
accusing.
Greshym lifted his staff, spinning it once, casting out a shield spell around 
both him and Rukh. He was glad he took the precaution: a moment later, his 
blood-borne spell struck the edge of the ruby stain, igniting a blinding 
explosion of energy. A storm of raging power blew outward in all directions. 
Greshym cringed with Rukh in the bubble of protection. He watched trees rip from 
their roots. A sailboat flew past overhead, tumbling end over end, followed by a 
surging wall of water twice the height of the tallest tree.
All this washed over and away from Greshym’s island of protection. He fed more 
and more of his magick into the shield and gaped at the display. Such power! He 
prayed his magick was strong enough to ride out this storm.
Through his shield spell, he heard a sound like no other, a howl of winds that 
had no place on this world.
As he searched for the source, a profound darkness swept over and past him. In a 
single heartbeat, Greshym sensed the world vanish.
His blood iced with terror.
He was in the Void.
Elena sensed the magickal explosion a moment before it hit. She tore her eyes 
from the Blood Diary’s blank pages and looked to the moon. The rivers of crimson 
corruption suddenly stopped their flows, freezing in place. She knew this was 
not a boon, but something worse… much worse.
“Er’ril…” she warned.
“What is it?”
She opened her mouth, but she found no words. She simply pointed to the skies.
The ruby stain on the silvery moon began to darken, then well upward, like a 
bubble rising from impossible depths.
“Run,” she whispered.
“Where? From what?” Er’ril grabbed her arm.
Elena yanked free. She shoved the Diary at him and grabbed up her wit’ch dagger. 
She sliced a deep wound across one palm, then the other. She felt none of the 
pain, only a growing panic.
Er’ril shoved the Diary into his cloak and reached for her. “Elena…”
Ignoring him, she raised both hands. She knew it was already too late. 
Soundlessly, the dark bubble exploded outward. Through spellcast eyes, she 
watched in horror as a flare of fiery energy raced toward them, chasing along 
the echo trail of spiritual energy left behind by the tree’s blooming.
“Run!” she screamed.
Before anyone could take a single step, the storm’s shock wave struck the 
courtyard like a great weight of water dropped from above.
Elena cast out the magick from both hands, but the energy from above snuffed 
through her effort and struck her with the force of storm-swept wave. The world 
vanished around her. Darkness without end consumed her.
Before a single thought could form, a tiny spark shattered the darkness, 
scintillating and bursting out in a dense tangle of threads and branches. The 
web swept over her, through her, around her. Her mind extended along the myriad 
threads, expanding out. She recognized the connection. She had experienced it 
before, whenever she had touched her magick at its most intimate depths.
It was the web of life, the infinite connection linking all life around the 
world. Voices filled her head. Images rushed by in a blur. Foreign desires, 
sensations, dreams swept through her. She fought to hold herself together, to 
keep from losing herself in this shining tangle of life.
She failed.
Elena tumbled toward the center of the web, a will-o‘-the-wisp in a maelstrom. 
She had no anchor. As she fell, she sensed a greater presence filling her mind, 
something that was life, but not life. She suddenly knew she was not alone here. 
Deep in the tangle of the world’s hfeweb, something existed. She felt its 
attention slowly turn her way. It was immense, immutable, forever. It was the 
spider of this web, the weaver.
Elena struggled to flee. She knew she could not survive its gaze.
Suddenly hands grabbed her, dragging her up and away. Words formed in her mind: 
You must not go there! Relief surged. It was Cho, returned. Then she was flung 
with the force of a thousand suns.
Pain ripped through her. You must never go there!
Tyrus reached the door to the courtyard as the thunderclap hit. The explosion 
knocked him to his knees. The entire castle shook. The thick ironwood door 
before him shuddered and cracked.
“Sweet Mother!” he gasped. Had lightning struck just beyond the threshold? 
Shaking his head against the echoing boom, he grabbed for the iron latch to the 
door, then cried out in pain and surprise. His hand had instantly frozen to the 
metal, so cold it burned. As he yanked back, he left a good swatch of skin on 
the handle.
Xin was a step behind him. “Something’s wrong.”
“I think I got that,” Tyrus snapped. He wrapped his ice-burned hand in his cloak 
and snatched at the latch again, but the door failed to budge. Growling his 
frustration, he kicked out, popping it open through a layer of ice.
The gardens of the Grand Courtyard beyond looked untouched. There was no sign of 
lightning strike or any storm in the sky. As Tyrus swung about, looking, the 
edge of his cloak brushed a rose. The pale pink flower crumpled to shards of 
crystalline petal.
Tyrus stared at the ruin in shock.
Xin reached to the branch of a flowering dogwood. It snapped off at his touch to 
tinkle and shatter upon the gravel path.
“All frozen,” Tyrus said. Under the light of the full moon, the gardens shone 
with an unnatural gleam. Every surface was rimed with ice, dead.
Movement drew his eye. A small figure crawled from under the shelter of the tree 
in the center of the gardens—the boy Rodricko. The lad reached to a purple 
flower of the koa’kona sapling, almost soothing it. Its petals remained soft, 
unfrozen. The tree suffused a warm radiance, a glow from its hundreds of open 
blooms. Except for the boy, the tree was the only living thing here.
Xin spoke behind him. “Where are the others?”
Tyrus shook his head. He had no answer.
The gardens were empty.
Kast was the first to react to the sudden boom that rocked the cas-tle. As his 
captors froze in an instant of confusion, Kast lunged and broke the grips that 
held him. Brother Ryn, still holding the fistful of gelatinous tentacles, 
stumbled backward. With a roar, Kast grabbed the edge of the library table and 
heaved upward, using all the strength of his pain and fury. The heavy oaken desk 
flew high, knocking aside the gathered brethren and striking the hearth. Coals 
scattered, and the two pieces of ebon’stone shell clattered across the floor.
Fingers clutched at his sleeve. He swung around. It was Sy-wen. “Kast… !” She 
sounded for the moment like herself. “Sy-wen?”
She stared up at him, frightened.
Kast smashed a fist into her face. Her nose broke under his knuckles; he 
snatched her wrist and yanked her over his shoulder. “Grab him!” Brother Ryn 
screamed.
Kast spun away with the balance of decades atop a rolling deck. Sy-wen’s small 
form was no burden; he raced toward the library doors. There were too many here 
to fight, especially with their demon-spawn strength. He would gather other 
defenders, then return to scour the corruption from these halls.
Reaching the doors, Kast had a sudden thought and shoved with his shoulder at 
the nearest row of stacked shelves. The tall wooden shelf teetered. It was heavy 
with texts and scrolled parchments. His pursuers were almost upon him.
Growling with fury, Kast struck again with his shoulder. Sy-wen groaned, but 
this time the shelf pitched over with a crack, knocking into the next row, 
sending its neighbor toppling. Row after row collapsed. Dust billowed, and books 
and scrolls flew.
Kast bounded out the door, but fled no more than four steps. He dumped Sy-wen to 
the floor, then grabbed a torch, and a lamp from a table.
Sweeping back to the door, Kast flung the lantern at the first pursuer, striking 
him in the chest. Glass burst and sprayed the man’s white robe with oil. Kast 
shoved him stiff-armed back into the library and struck the torch to the man’s 
chest. “Sorry, my brother.”
The oily robe took the flame in a fiery rush. Kast kicked the screaming man into 
the toppled stacks of dusty tomes and worm-eaten wood. The ancient tinder was 
ripe for the flame. The fire quickened with a roar. Kast danced back, flinging 
his torch deeper into the pile of felled books, then spun back to the door and 
out.
He slammed the thick door and secured it by imbedding his dagger in the jamb, 
then tied the latch down with his belt. As he worked, he heard screams and cries 
from inside. The door shook from someone’s pounding. There was no other exit 
from the library, except up a spiral staircase to the observatory, and a deadly 
fall awaited anyone who attempted to escape in that direction.
Kast turned from the screams. He would have to go for help to make sure this 
nest was fully burned out. Hurrying, Kast returned to where he had left Sy-wen.
With the hall torch gone to set the fire, the corridor was dark, the shadows 
thick—and the floor was empty.
He stared down the dark passage. “Sy-wen…”
Greshym tried to pierce the dark Void around him. Where was he? For a moment, he 
spotted a flare of crackling light far away in the blackness, a flash of azure 
lightning. Then it was gone.
He fed magick into his protection spell, draining the last of the dark energy 
from his bone staff. Despair settled to the marrow of his bones. Behind him, 
Rukh continued to whine. Did the creature sense its own doom ?
Greshym lowered his staff, resigned. At least he had tasted the wine of youth 
again, even if only a sip.
Then like a bubble popping, the Void vanished, and the world returned around 
them. The sudden appearance of light and substance knocked Greshym to his knees. 
Rukh buried his snouted face in the mud, mewling. Greshym nudged him with an 
elbow. “Quiet, dog!” But his command held no venom. The sight before him had 
stolen his voice.
The pair still stood on the same spit of land, but Moon Lake was now empty. The 
lands around were a watery ruin. A leafless, toppled forest spread as far as the 
eye could see. A clear moon hung over the devastation, blind and cold to the 
wreckage.
All around, the night remained silent, hushed. No birdsong, no voices, no cries. 
Greshym strained for sounds of any other survivors. Nothing.
He searched around—then a glimmer of light caught his eye, and he turned back to 
the center of the lake. Pools of water still stood in deeper pockets of the 
sandy bottoms; he thought at first he merely saw moonlight reflecting off a 
puddle. But the shaft of brilliance grew, like a ray of sunshine piercing 
between two dark clouds—a spear of moonshine from sky to lake.
“What is that?” he murmured, shielding his eyes against the brilliance.
°
He sensed the flow of magick pulsing in the heart of the brilliant shaft. He 
lifted his hollow staff. If he could tap into that energy…
He took a step toward the lake. Before he could take a second, the spear of 
light exploded, shattering out in a storm of shards. The blast sent pieces 
stabbing into the sandy mud. Ice?
He touched the tip of his staff to it. Moonlit energy answered him— these were 
frozen pieces of the lake. He drew the small bit of magick into the marrow of 
his weapon, then stared out at the thousands of chunks of ice and smiled. It 
wasn’t as much magick as he had hoped, but it would do for now.
As he gazed out across the lake, he spotted figures rising from the sand and mud 
in the center of the empty lake. He took a step back warily. Small sounds of 
shock and disorientation echoed to him.
“Where are we?” a voice asked weakly.
“I don’t know.” This was spoken with more strength. It also sounded familiar.
“Impossible,” Greshym whispered, ducking low. He used the bit of magick in the 
staff to heighten his vision and sharpen his ears. The figures covered in muck 
and filth milled together in the center of the lake. Greshym bit back a snarl. 
It could not be.
Er’ril waded through the muck to Elena’s side. With each step, the sandy mud 
threatened to pull the boots from his feet. “I don’t know where we are, but from 
the stars, it must be far from A’loa Glen.”
Elena lifted her face. She had been studying her pale white hands. The Rose was 
gone from both. “Yes, but where?”
“Somewhere in the forests of the Western Reaches,” Nee’lahn answered.
Er’ril glanced over to the small nyphai woman. Menc and one of the castle guards 
were helping her stand.
Harlequin Quail remained seated in the muck, his expression exasperated. “The 
Western Reaches… great.”
“Are you sure?” Joach asked, as the other guard pulled him to his feet. He 
leaned on his staff, grimacing at the ankle-deep mud.
Nee’lahn stared out at the ruined forest. “I can hear treesong beyond the 
horizon.” Her fingers absently cleaned the mud from her lute. “But the forest 
here is dead.”
“We can see that,” Meric said.
“No, you don’t understand.” Nee’lahn’s voice cracked. “It’s not just dead—it’s 
lifeless. The Land itself is empty.” She turned to the others. “Can’t you feel 
it?”
Er’ril searched the ruined landscape. It did indeed seem unnaturally quiet.
“Even dead trees are a part of the cycle of root and loam,” Nee’lahn continued, 
“giving their decaying energy and magick back to the Land. But this soil is 
empty. Whatever blasted this region tore the elemental magick from tree and Land 
alike.”
No one spoke. The dark and silent forest took on a more ominous shading.
Harlequin finally broke the quiet, pulling out of the sucking mud with a sour 
look. “But how did we get here and can we get back?”
“It was Cho,” Elena answered. “I sensed her when the magick wave struck the 
courtyard. We must have been carried along the bridge—from one spell to 
another.”
“What do you mean?” Er’ril asked.
“Cho saw two opposing forces upon this night’s full moon.” She pointed to where 
the orb now descended toward the horizon. “A spirit bridge heading up and some 
force drawing energy down… down to here, I’d imagine.” She stared across the 
dark landscape. “The explosion sucked us along the backwash—up the trace of the 
spirit bridge and down to this spot, like so much flotsam in a raging current.”
“Not all of us.” Meric’s voice lowered fearfully as he turned to Nee’lahn. 
“Rodricko…”
Nee’lahn shook her head. “Fear not. I was watching him when we were struck by 
the wave. The limbs of his tree sheltered him. He had finished his song… joined 
with the tree. As the tree is rooted to the courtyard, so was the boy.”
“And he is safe?” Meric asked with clear relief.
Nee’lahn’s face tightened. “I must believe so. I’m sure I would sense 
otherwise.”
Er’ril sighed. “We’d best find shelter, get a fire going, and get out of these 
damp clothes. Then we’ll find a way back home.”
Joach stood shivering nearby. “A fire sounds good. Once I’m rested, I can try to 
reach Xin through my black pearl.” He patted his pockets.
Er’ril nodded. He knew Joach and the zo’ol shaman had formed a bond—an exchange 
of gifts and names. This bond allowed them to communicate over long distances. 
But could it reach this far? That question would wait until morning. Right now, 
a secure camp was the priority.
They set off toward the forest, working around muddy pools. Er’ril sent the 
guards forward to scout and aid survivors. He took inventory of the party’s 
weapons. He had his own sword, as did Meric. Joach had his staff, but did he 
have the strength to wield it?
Er’ril frowned and slogged up to Elena. She had been talking to Harlequin in 
whispers. The small man spoke with waving hands and jingling bells. Whatever 
tale he told brought a smile to Elena’s lips. For that small blessing, Er’ril 
could have hugged the strange fellow. Instead he motioned Elena aside. “What is 
it?” she asked.
He took her hands between his own, and found his breath catch in his throat. It 
was seldom that Elena was not gifted with the magick of the Rose, so it was rare 
to hold her hands without gloves. He had forgotten the softness of her skin, the 
warmth of her palm. “Er’ril… ?”
He met her gaze. “We don’t know what dangers await us here. You’d best renew 
your coldfire while the moon is still risen.”
Elena seemed to sag, her smile fading. “Of course.” She slipped her hand from 
his and stepped to the side.
He reached for her, then lowered his arm. There were some paths she walked that 
he couldn’t follow.
Elena raised her left hand to the moon. Her eyes closed slightly as she willed 
the magick again to her. Er’ril stared only at her face. The moonlight cast her 
into a figure of silver and darkness. After a moment, he saw her lips tighten 
and her brows furrow. She lowered her arm, then turned to him, holding out her 
hand, still pale and white. “It… it didn’t work.”
Er’ril went to her. “Are you sure? Did you do it right?” She cast him an 
exasperated look, then stared up at the sky. “What could’ve gone wrong?”
Elena leaned into him. “I don’t know. Maybe the moon’s magick has been too 
sorely abused this night. Or maybe it’s because Cho has vanished. It’s her power 
that channels into me.”
“We’ll figure this out,” Er’ril assured her. “If it’s the moon, then we’ll know 
by sunrise. You can renew your wit’ch fire with the dawn.” Elena’s voice grew 
hushed. “And if it fails then, too?” Er’ril heard the fear in her voice, but 
also a small thread of relief. He held her tighter. Like the softness of her 
skin, he sometimes forgot the heavy burden on her shoulders. He simply wrapped 
his warmth around her. He was always her liegeman, but in moments like this, he 
could be her husband, too.
They stood in each other’s arms long enough to be left behind by the others in 
their party.
Finally, Elena reached under his cloak, slipping the Blood Diary from the inner 
pocket of his garment. She ran her pale fingers over the cover. The gilt rose 
still bore a slight glow of moonshine. She took a shuddering breath. “If it’s 
not the moon, then we must search for Cho. We can’t win this war without her 
power.”
Er’ril only nodded.
Elena opened the book. As she stared into the pages, a small cry escaped her. 
She held out the Diary, and Er’ril saw that once again, the pages opened into a 
dark world streaked with crimson and azure gases and stars clustered too close 
together.
The Void had returned.
Elena searched expectantly around her. There was no flash or swirl of light. As 
they waited, a small frown formed on her lips. She rattled the book slightly, as 
if to shake the spirits loose from the pages.
She turned to Er’ril, still frowning. “Where is Cho?”
Greshym crouched at the edge of Moon Lake, eyes and ears sharp on those hiking 
across the marshy grounds. He had heard all. So the wit’ch has lost her powers? 
His mouth twitched with a grin. Shorkan and the Master of Blackhall might 
forgive his past slights if he handed them the wit’ch. Still, there was much 
risk. He had but the smallest magick at his command.
Greshym focused on the bent-backed figure hobbling with the aid of the elv’in 
prince and the nyphai lass. Joach… That boy reeked of magick, as did the 
familiar staff he leaned upon.
“If I could regain what was once mine…” he whispered, not entirely sure right 
now if he meant the length of petrified wood or the boy himself. There was much 
to ponder, but some initial maneuvering needed to be made quickly. He dared not 
lose this chance.
He leaned to his side and gave Rukh a few stern commands. The stump gnome 
groveled, then backed off into the deadfall and vanished. Then Greshym turned 
his attention back upon the group, carefully planning his next move. With his 
concentration so focused, he failed to notice the one who spied upon him and 
approached so silently.
As Greshym crouched, all the hairs on his arms and neck suddenly stood on end. 
He swung around as light burst behind him, a brilliant torch in the night, 
illuminating his hiding spot for all to see from leagues away.
He threw an arm up against the glare, crying out.
The flare of brilliance formed the figure of a woman, her face shining with icy 
rage: the Lady of the Lake.
Her voice boomed and echoed, as deafening as her light was bright. “You are 
found! You will be judged!”
Greshym cringed, lifting his drained staff. He knew it was too feeble a weapon 
against the one he faced. Strange fires burned in those empty eyes.
Confirmation came from the wit’ch’s call in the distance. “Cho!”
HOMECOMING

Tol’chuk crouched in the rain like a boulder in the storm, water sluicing over 
his craggy features. He perched on a granite outcropping, one that gave him a 
wide view of the valley below and the rising highlands beyond, misted by heavy 
clouds and sheets of rain. Dawn was breaking, but it was hard to say where night 
ended and day began: for the past three days, they had seen no sign of moon or 
sun, just slate-gray skies and feeble glows.
“Such a damp land,” a voice said behind him.
He did not have to turn to know Magnam; the d’warf’s droll demeanor never 
changed.
“It be the summer wet season here,” Tol’chuk said. “Come midsummer these lands 
finally dry for a spell, until the winter storms begin.”
“Sounds delightful. If I had d’warflings and a nattering wife, I’d bring them 
here to holiday.”
“You could’ve gone with Wennar and the other d’warves.”
Magnam made a rude noise and pulled a pipe from his pocket, waving it 
dismissively. “I’m no warrior. Camp cook, that’s me. I figured a flight to see 
these homelands of yours was a better idea.” Magnam scrambled up the slick rock 
and stared out at the rain-shrouded highlands. “Yep, some homeland you og’res 
have.”
Tol’chuk glanced over. “At least there be no fireweeds growing every five steps, 
and no sulfurous pits,” he said, referring to the d’warf lands in Gul’gotha, a 
blasted and festering place. But when he saw the wounded look on Magnam’s face, 
he regretted his bitter words.
Magnam remained quiet for a long time.
Everyone’s spirits had been sorely tested, leading to arguments and sullen 
silences. The flight here had taken much longer than any had expected. The 
elv’in captain, Jerrick, had tired rapidly, pitted against stormy weather and a 
growing malaise that sapped his elemental abilities. They were forced to land 
the scoutship frequently for rest breaks, and it took Jerrick longer to 
recuperate after each stop—sometimes days at a time. It was only with the help 
of Mama Freda’s tonics that the ship had reached the mountains by the first moon 
of summer.
Magnam hunched against the wet wind and attempted to light his pipe with a 
wrapped coal from the fire. He finally gave up and threw the coal over the 
ridge, sighing loudly. “At least we’re finally here.” He reached over and patted 
Tol’chuk on his bent knee. “Welcome home.”
Tol’chuk stared across the valley. The great Fang of the North loomed beyond, 
its upper slopes white from a crust of snow that never melted. Even the 
thunderclouds could not mask the peak’s majesty as it towered over its brethren. 
Only its sister mountain to the distant south, the Southern Fang, competed for 
dominance among the chain of peaks.
Squinting his amber eyes, Tol’chuk tried to pierce the mists, to see into his 
homelands, but failed. Beyond the next valley lay the heart of og’re territory. 
His own people. Why did such a thought strike fear into his heart? One hand 
reached to his thigh pouch, bulging with his treasure, a chunk of heartstone 
larger than a goat’s skull, the revered and spiritual center of the og’re clans. 
Tol’chuk had succeeded in lifting the curse from the Heart of his people, 
restoring its full beauty and power. To complete his mission, he must return the 
jewel to the elders of his tribe, the ancient Triad. So why, after so long a 
journey, did he want to flee from here?
Magnam seemed to sense his distress. “Homecomings aren’t always easy.”
Tol’chuk remained quiet for a long moment more. “It be not just coming home that 
worries me.”
“Then what?”
Tol’chuk shook his head. He had left these lands as a murderer, an outcast, the 
last seed of the foul Oathbreaker. He now returned with a healed crystal, but 
his own heart had grown heavier. He would have to face the Triad and reveal that 
not only was he a descendant of the Oath-breaker, but his cursed ancestor still 
lived. The Oathbreaker was in fact the Dark Lord of these very lands, the one 
who bore such nefarious names as the Blac’t Heart or Blac’t Beast, or among the 
d’warves, the Nameless One. It seemed each people had their own curse with which 
to call his ancestor.
It was this burden he carried in his heart, but he could not shirk his duty. He 
would trade his shame to learn more about this ancestor and the connection 
between heartstone and ebon’stone.
“It must be done,” he whispered to the Northern Fang.
The snap of a twig announced a newcomer to their early-morning reflections. A 
sodden mouse of a man stepped from the rain-laden branches. His brown hair lay 
in drizzled swatches over his face, half hiding his features. He came naked to 
the granite outcropping, unembarrassed by his lack of clothes. He strode toward 
them, moving with a certain easy grace. “The sun is up,” the man said.
“Fardale?” Magnam asked.
The newcomer nodded. Though he wore the face of Mogweed, this was clearly the 
brother, Fardale. Once twins in form, the two now shared one body. Mogweed 
occupied it during the night, Fardale the day. The only advantage to this 
strange change in their fates was the return of their shape-shifting abilities.
“I’m off to scout the way ahead,” Fardale said. His eyes narrowed as he studied 
the highlands, cocking his head, nose in the air, already scenting the damp 
gusts.
With a shuddering shake, he fell toward the ground. Reaching out, his arms and 
legs twisted and bent as if boneless, then settled to a new form, catching his 
weight. At the same time, naked skin rolled and sprouted a dense growth of dark 
fur. A growl rose to a wolfish howl. His neck arched back while his lower face 
stretched to a fanged and snarling snout. Soon Fardale the man was gone, 
replaced by a giant treewolf, a denizen of the deep wood. Only one feature 
remained the same between man and beast: a pair of amber eyes, glowing in the 
drizzling gloom.
Images flashed into Tol’chuk as he met that gaze with his own eyes—a matching 
set of amber, the heritage from his mother, a si’lura changeling like Fardale 
and Mogweed. Though Tol’chuk could not shape-shift, he could mindspeak with 
another si’luran. The word pictures of the wolf filled his head: The open trail, 
dar’t at the end… a lone wolf traipsing the path, nose to the ground.
Tol’chuk nodded his understanding.
In a blur of shadow, the wolf vanished into the wood. Once again, Fardale would 
lead the way, scouting for them.
“He really needs to think variety,” Magnam grumbled. “This wolf thing is getting 
tired. How about a badger?”
Tol’chuk glanced to the d’warf.
“A big, mean badger.” Magnam pocketed his unlit pipe. “Yeah, I’d like to see 
that.”
o
Tol’chuk scowled, dragging himself up. “Do not judge Fardale. The wolf be a form 
he knows.” He glanced to where the shape-shifter had vanished. “I think he draws 
peace from it.”
Magnam shrugged. “I’d feel the same, if I had to share my body with someone 
else… especially that brother of his.” The d’warf shook his head.
“Mogweed bears no less a burden.”
“I beg to disagree. He doesn’t have to hear himself whine night after night.”
Tol’chuk climbed off the granite boulder. He had no patience to explain 
Mogweed’s irascible character, even if he could. Instead he pointed back to the 
woods. “We should help the others break camp.”
Together they crossed through the trees. Overhead, pine needles trickled with 
water. A few paces into the forest, a sharp brightness marked their nighttime 
campsite. They followed the glow to a rocky overhang, beneath which a small fire 
still crackled merrily, out of place in the misty gloom of the forest. Magnam 
joined the remaining members of their small party—the el’vin captain Jerrick, 
and the elderly blind healer Mama Freda—storing bedrolls and clanking gear into 
packs.
Most of the supplies had been left in the elv’in scoutship, safely ensconced in 
an open highland meadow a day’s journey from here. It was the closest they dared 
travel by wind among these now-constant storms. Also Tol’chuk feared how his 
tribesmen would react to such a strange craft landing in their territory. Og’res 
had a tendency to attack before asking questions. So for safety’s sake, they had 
left the ship behind as they made the final approach on foot.
Tol’chuk watched them break camp and shook his head. “I still think it be best 
if you’d all stayed with the ship.” He feared bringing even such a small party 
among his people. Fardale disguised as a wolf was one thing, but bringing a 
d’warf, a woman, and an elv’in into og’re territory risked all their lives.
“Stay behind?” Mama Freda straightened with a small pack containing her herbs 
and elixirs. “The fate of Alasea may rest on what we discover here. Besides, 
these highlands are no safer than your homelands.”
Tol’chuk couldn’t argue that. On the flight here they had seen entire villages 
razed below, heard rumors from townsfolk of strange beasts prowling the night. 
As they crossed into the foothills, bands of armed villagers had warned them off 
from places of pestilence and quarantine. Then one night the ship had crossed 
high over a burning town. A long army, lit by torches, marched forth from it 
like a line of fiery ants. Jerrick had spied upon them. “Not men” was all he 
said as he lowered his spyglass.
i
After landing, they had decided to travel on together. Few would bother a 
company with an og’re among them.
Jerrick shoveled dirt over their campfire, then dusted his hands. The old elv’in 
captain looked pale, an effect accentuated by his long white hair. “We’re 
ready.”
A tawny-haired creature the size of a small cat clambered out of the branches 
overhead. Chittering, it shook its wet fur. Its tiny bare face, set in a cowl of 
fiery fur, scowled. “Bad wet… cold to the bones,” it griped, mimicking Mogweed’s 
whining tone and words.
“Here, Tikal,” Mama Freda said. The gray-haired healer tapped her shoulder. Her 
pet clambered to the offered perch, then hugged tight. The two were 
sense-bonded: Mama Freda and the tamrink shared each other’s senses, a joining 
that allowed the blind healer to see through the beast’s eyes.
Jerrick shrugged into his gear, then checked Mama Freda’s pack, one hand 
lingering on her shoulder. She leaned her cheek to his fingers, a small gesture 
of affection. The elderly healer had insisted on accompanying the captain on 
this long journey. “To help him fight the draining malaise,” she had claimed. 
But from their interactions, it was clear that deeper ties bound them together.
Magnam waddled over with his bundle, patting the small ax on his hip for 
reassurance. “Let’s go see these lands of yours.”
Tol’chuk grabbed up the largest pack, heavy with supplies and equipment. With a 
final scrutiny of their campsite, they set off.
Tol’chuk led the way. By midday, he would be among his own lands. And by 
nightfall, he’d be within sight of his home caves. He set off through the 
weeping forest as thunder echoed in the distance, the voice of the mountains 
calling him home.
Magnam tramped beside him. “You’re not alone,” he said softly.
Tol’chuk remained silent. He found himself surprisingly comforted by the simple 
words. Risk or not, he was glad the group had decided to remain together.
Reaching a deer track heading in the right direction, Tol’chuk set off down it. 
The way descended a steep slope, slick with mud and pine needles. They proceeded 
slowly, grabbing tree limbs and bushes to keep their footing.
“Where’s Fardale?” Jerrick finally grumbled from behind. “Shouldn’t he have 
returned by now to let us know the best path from here?”
Tol’chuk frowned. The wolf usually trotted back to them periodically, alerting 
them to obstacles or the best way over creeks or rivers, but this morning there 
had been no sign of Fardale. And it was now near on to midday. The wolf had 
never been away for so long.
“Probably found a rabbit to chase,” Magnam said. “Forgot all about us.”
Despite his light manner, Tol’chuk heard the worry in the other’s voice. They 
slowed their pace as they reached the bottom of the vale. A swift brook ran down 
the center, swollen from the rains. Tol’chuk pointed to an uprooted tree that 
had fallen across the rushing waters. “We can cross there. Mayhaps Fardale 
crossed already.”
Fording the river they entered a denser forest, darker of needle and shadow. The 
climb from here was steep, and beyond this last ridge lay the og’re lands.
Tol’chuk prayed Fardale had not ventured into those lands on his own. Wolf meat 
was a delicacy among his people, their warm pelts a valued trading commodity. 
But it was doubtful many og’res were out in this dreadful weather; most 
preferred their dry caves and sweltering fires. Still, where was Fardale?
A crackle of lightning split the midday gloom, forking like a net overhead. 
Thunder immediately followed, rolling down the slope with a roar. It escalated 
into a howl of anger and challenge.
Tol’chuk froze, well familiar with the call of their companion.
“Fardale…” Mama Freda said. Her tamrink wrapped its tail around the old woman’s 
neck, cringing.
As the thunder rolled away, the howl pitched higher, red with fury.
A new noise accompanied the challenge: coarse bellows, like the grind of 
boulders.
Magnam glanced to Tol’chuk.
He answered the question in the d’warf’s eyes. “Og’res.” He stared up the slope. 
“A hunting pack.”
A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY, IN THE SWELTERING JUNGLE OF THE SOUTHERN
Fang’s lower slopes, Jaston heard the cry of an enraged animal. The howl cut 
through the croaking frogs and the buzz of blood-hungry flies. He froze on the 
trail, glancing around him. The call had a faraway sound, yet it seemed as close 
as his own heart. He squinted his eyes, searching. From this ridgeline, the 
swamplands were visible in the distance, blanketed in familiar mists.
They were the Drowned Lands, his home. He was a swamper—a hunter among the bogs 
and marshes. He wore gray leather leggings and a matching cloak of kroc’an 
leather. How he longed to return to his own lands—but he had a mission here.
As he turned back to the Fang, the strange howl rose in pitch, echoing around 
him. Even the sounds of the jungle died down. And despite the clarity of the 
call, it still had a faraway feeling to it. Strange. Jaston fingered the scars 
on the left side of his face, a nervous habit.
“A big doggie got loose,” a voice said at his hip.
Jaston glanced down to the small boy and patted his head. “It’s just an echo. 
The Fang plays tricks.”
“Is the doggie lost?”
Jaston smiled. “He’s fine.”
Apparently satisfied, the boy popped his thumb in his mouth. The black-haired 
lad in simple rough-spun looked no older than five winters, but he was only a 
fortnight old, a construct of moss, lichen, and swampweed—a golem given life by 
the swamp wit’ch, Cassa Dar.
Jaston continued up the deer track, shrugging his pack higher on his shoulder. 
The howling seemed to follow, clinging to him, nipping at his heels. He stopped 
again. What strangeness was this?
He turned to the boy. “Cassa, can you hear me?”
The boy frowned, then scratched in his ear as if a bug had crawled in there.
Cassa… r
The boy spoke again, but with a different voice. “I hear you, my love.”
The sound of her voice warmed him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine she 
was next to him. Even her scent seemed to enter this humid and damp forest: 
moonblossom, the fragrance sweet and heady. Like the selfsame flower, Cassa Dar 
was as deadly as she was sweet, a most powerful elemental wit’ch.
“What is it?” Cassa asked, speaking through the boy. The wit’ch had once been a 
student of the feared Assassins’ Guild, sent to Castle Drakk from her d’warf 
homelands. But an attack by the Dark Lord had fused her to the lands around the 
stronghold, granting her both longevity and a gift of poisonous magick. And 
bound to her lands, she had been unable to join Jaston on his journey, forcing 
them to part. She could only send a bit of her magick as company—her swamp 
child.
“Do you hear that howl?” he asked.
The boy cocked his head, listening; then one arm raised, palm outward. The child 
turned in a slow circle. “Treewolf,” Cassa said finally.
“Here?” he asked, surprised. Wolves were not native to these lands.
“No.” The boy stopped his circle and stared up the slope. “You were right to 
contact me.”
“I don’t understand.”
The boy glanced to him, but Jaston sensed Cassa Dar’s gaze behind those eyes. 
“It echoes from the Northern Fang.”
“That’s a thousand leagues away.”
The boy nodded. “But you recognize that voice, don’t you?”
Jaston didn’t understand.
“Listen… not just with your ears, but also your heart.”
Jaston frowned, but he obeyed the wit’ch he loved. He let his eyelids drift 
closed. He breathed deeply. The howl wrapped around him, filling his senses.
“He seeks you…”
Suddenly Jaston understood. He felt it in his bones. “Fardale,” he breathed out. 
“The shape-shifter…” Jaston opened his eyes, now fully recognizing the strange 
call. He had traveled with the wolf, even saving its life at one point from a 
tentacled and winged monster.
“It is your past connection that opens this path. Such is the linked mag-ick of 
these twin peaks.”
“The Fangs,” he mumbled.
Cassa Dar had explained to him about the two mountains, two fonts of the Land’s 
raw elemental energy. It was a flow of this energy from the Southern Fang that 
sustained the wit’ch and her swamp. Then a moon ago, she had sensed a sudden 
thinning of this power, in turn growing weak herself, beyond the general malaise 
all elementals suffered. This recent weakening was more sudden, sharper. And 
unlike other elementals, Cassa Dar’s life was tied to this energy.
As it waned, so did she.
Jaston could not sit idle. So a fortnight ago he had set out alone to 
investigate who or what had stanched the flow from the Fang. If possible, he 
would tear down the magickal dam.
Jaston stared up at the mountain. “Then Fardale must be at the Northern Fang.”
The swamp child nodded. “Elena said that the shape-shifter, the og’re, and a few 
others were headed to the homeland of the og’res.”
The howl pitched suddenly higher.
“From the sounds of it, they’re in trouble,” Jaston said. He clutched the swamp 
child’s hand tighter.
“Follow the howl,” Cassa said through the boy. “Find the source. We must not 
lose the connection while it’s still open. Only strong emotions keep the peaks 
linked.” The boy headed up the trail, tugging Jaston with him. “Maybe we can 
open a door at that point.”
“Open a door? How?”
“I’ve lived for centuries in the shadow of the Southern Fang,” Cassa explained. 
“And the libraries of Castle Drakk go even farther back. For ages, folks have 
believed the mountain haunted. Stories and myths abound. Bodiless voices, 
ghostly apparitions, disappearances. But the mages of Alasea knew the truth. 
With strong bonds and dire need, portals can be opened between the two peaks.”
“And you know how to do this?”
“No.” Cassa Dar’s voice grew winded. “I’m heading to the libraries to 
investigate that answer as we speak, but it’s hard for me to maintain this 
connection while doing both. So take the child to as near the source of the howl 
as possible. Call for me then.”
“Wait! My mission here is to find what weakens the flow of your mag-ick from the 
Southern Peak.”
“The shape-shifter is in more immediate danger than I.”
“But—?”
The boy’s voice lowered. “And I don’t believe it is happenstance that you hear 
the cry of the wolf.”
Jaston frowned. “What do you mean?”
Cassa’s voice grew exasperated. “From what I’ve read of the Fangs, both sides of 
this connection must have a mutual need. You had no way of knowing Fardale was 
in danger. But you had your own deep need. Perhaps both your desires are somehow 
mutual. For what you seek, Fardale may hold a clue to that path. You must follow 
it—not only to save the shape-shifter, but to save me.”
Jaston stood stunned.
“Now go, while the connection remains! Find the wolf!”
“I’ll try.” Jaston turned and listened to the echoing cry. It seemed to be 
coming from everywhere at once.
Straining, he studied the dense jungle, the midday heat pressing on him like a 
wet woolen blanket. The sunlight pierced through the canopy of the cloud forest, 
glowing the woods an emerald green.
Find the wolf! But where to begin looking?
The boy still held his hand. “I want to pet the doggie.” He yanked on Jaston’s 
arm.
Jaston followed the driven boy. The creations of the swamp wit’ch had a 
rudimentary will of their own, but their desires were still Cassa Dar’s. The 
boy’s mind translated her whim into his own understanding.
“I like doggies. Doggie scared. I must pet him.” The boy set off in a direct 
path through a curtain of vines.
Wit‘ ch Star
Jaston allowed himself to trust the youngster’s ears. Constructed of magick, 
perhaps the boy could find the source of the howl.
They tromped up a steep slope, grabbing vines and branches to haul themselves 
along. The boy scrambled through the underbrush. “Here, doggie, doggie…” he 
chanted, gasping with the exertion.
They reached a new ridgeline. In the hollow below, a stagnant pond glistened in 
the bright sunlight. A few frogs leaped from mud banks to plop into the water, 
sending out ripples. The boy pointed. “The doggie’s thirsty!”
Jaston strained his ears. The howl had turned into growls and warning barks, but 
the boy had led him true. The calls echoed from this hollow. “Show me!” Jaston 
urged.
The boy nodded with youthful exuberance. “I’m gonna pet that doggie.” Then he 
was off, hopping and sliding down into the tiny vale, pulling Jaston in his 
wake.
In no time, they reached the algae-rimmed pond. Under its placid surface a few 
fish lazed about. Frogs complained in croaking bellows at their intrusion. The 
sun shone overhead, bright upon the water.
Jaston’s reflection stared back at him, a frown on his face. What now? Fardale’s 
voice rose like mist from the pond’s surface, then died away. “Cassa?” Jaston 
cried out, panicked.
The boy was nearby, searching under bushes for the lost dog. He suddenly 
straightened as if he were a string puppet. “Jaston,” he said, taking on the 
tones of Cassa Dar. “Blood,” she said, sounding exhausted.
“Blood?”
The boy nodded his head. “According to an old text”—Here her words sounded rote, 
as if she were reading.—“ ‘thee who are twined might open a path between Fangs 
by strong need and desire and a measure of blood.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“You and Fardale share a bond. You saved the shape-shifter’s life, forming 
spiritual connections between you. That is why his cries reached you. But to 
open a path to cross bodily will require living substance given to the spell. 
That substance is your blood.”
Jaston stared at the still pond. “But the howling has stopped.”
“Try anyway… the spell may persist for a short time!”
Frowning, Jaston yanked a dagger from his belt. “How much blood?”
The boy remained silent, but his face screwed tight.
“How much?” he repeated, poising the knife’s tip to his forearm.
Cassa shook the child’s head. “I don’t know. A measure… That’s what the book 
says.”
Jaston sighed. It might be a drop; it might be a bucketful. He dug the knife in 
firmly. Pain lanced up his arm, but blood streamed down and dribbled across the 
surface of the pool, spreading a sheen over the crystal waters.
Fish swirled to investigate.
“Nothing’s happening,” he whispered.
The swamp child knelt at the pond’s edge. “This must be the portal. Reflective 
surfaces have power.” The boy turned to Jaston. “But with the howl gone, the 
spellcast channel must have dissolved. We’re too late.”
Jaston shoved his arm out farther, refusing to give up. “Maybe it takes more 
blood.” He squeezed a fist, freshening the flow from his wound.
“Jaston, don’t waste—”
Somewhere beyond the hollow’s ridge, a new yowling suddenly arose. But it was no 
wolf. Other voices answered this first piercing cry. Screams arose from all 
around the hollow.
The boy stood. “Sniffers… They must have been drawn by the wolf’s cries.
Jaston swallowed hard. And now they’ve caught the scent of blood. All hunters 
were familiar with the giant, purple-skinned predators of the deep forests: all 
muscle and teeth and hunger, bull sharks of the woods. He listened to the cries: 
a pack… at least eight or nine.
He lowered his arm, forsaking his attempt to aid Fardale. He had his own battle 
on hand. He drew out his sword with his uninjured arm. The boy moved nearer his 
side.
The hunting cries of the pack grew to a cacophony. Sniffers used their screams 
to terrify their prey—and in this case, it was working.
“Jaston, use my poison to whet your blade.” The boy took a step back and pulled 
apart his rough-spun jerkin. “Stab here.”
Jaston’s brows shot high. “I can’t.”
“The boy won’t feel pain. Remember he’s just moss and swampweed.”
Jaston still balked.
“He is of my essence,” she pleaded. “Poison and venom. Use it to taint your 
sword’s touch.”
The cries drew closer around him. Somewhere behind him, rustling and the creak 
of vines warned of hidden encroachment. Jaston moved the tip of the blade to the 
boy’s chest.
The child fingered the sharp edge with unconcerned interest. “Pointy…” the boy 
mumbled in his own voice.
As Jaston hesitated, staring into those blue and trusting eyes, a growl arose at 
his shoulder, escalating into a raging howl. Both boy and man glanced down to 
the pond at their feet. The new call arose from there. It was not a sniffer, but 
the wolf again.
The pond’s glassy surface shimmered; then the curious fish vanished, replaced 
with an impossible sight: a treewolf crouched, haunches high, snarling.
Fardale!
Beyond the wolf, the threat was clear: a pack of og’res, armed with clubs and 
lengths of crooked bone. Blood lust gleamed in the monsters’ eyes, shining out 
from the pond.
“Jaston!” the boy suddenly cried in Cassa’s voice.
He swung from the pond as a giant creature stalked onto a trail only a leap 
away. Its skin was the color of a deep bruise. It nose flaps spread wide, 
inflamed, sucking in the scent of his blood and fear. Black eyes, cold and 
emotionless, studied him. Fleshy lips rolled slowly back to reveal row after row 
of ripping teeth.
Rustling arose around him from all sides, followed by cries from other sniffers, 
whining with hunger. But here stood their leader, full of silent menace—the one 
granted the kill.
Without a twitch or a cry, the pack leader leaped, springing with a speed that 
belied its bulk.
Jaston jerked up the tip of his sword. He had no time to poison its edge. 
Flinching backward with the frightened child clinging to his leg, his foot 
slipped in the slick pond mud. His sword arm shifted, letting his guard down.
The bulk of the sniffer struck his chest. Razored claws dug into his shoulder. 
As Jaston tumbled backward into the pond, the pack leader screamed, a wail of 
triumph and death.
Tol’chuk reached the top of the ridge first, racing ahead of the oth-ers. If 
there was any chance of saving Fardale, he’d have to be quick.
Reaching the top, he searched the highlands beyond for any sign of Fardale. The 
wolf had gone ominously silent. Had he shifted his shape? Taken flight? Tol’chuk 
doubted this. Fardale always persisted in his wolfish shape, trusting its form 
the best.
Tol’chuk held his breath, straining to hear. Though he trusted the 
shape-shifter’s skill and speed, he had also seen og’res hunt. Once on a scent, 
they were hard to escape and experienced at herding prey into a trap.
And now this silence…
I
“Do you see him?” Magnam bellowed from below.
The d’warf climbed with Mama Freda and Jerrick, working as quickly as possible 
up the slick trail.
Despairing, Tol’chuk opened his mouth to answer when a savage howl split the 
highlands. Fardale! The cry came from beyond a neighboring hillock. Tol’chuk 
dared not wait for his friends. He raced along the ridge-line and over the 
treeless hump of granite, following the call.
The stone was slick from the drizzling rain. On its far side, Tol’chuk lost his 
footing and slid down the smooth, treacherous rock. A cry of anger and surprise 
burst from him as he tumbled over a cliff’s edge. He flew through the air and 
splashed into the middle of a creek, swollen from the rains. He sputtered up and 
saw he had also landed in the midst of a standoff.
A group of six og’res crowded on one side of the creek; Fardale crouched on the 
other. He was pinned against the hillock’s cliffs with no means of escape.
As the og’res gaped, stunned at the sudden intrusion, Tol’chuk clambered out of 
the stream, backing to Fardale’s side. He spoke in the og’re tongue. “Leave this 
wolf to me!” he growled.
One of the og’res lumbered forward. A giant, he knuckled on an arm as thick 
around as a tree trunk, and he bore a length of log in his free claw. He bared 
his fangs, yellow and pitted. “Go find your own meat!”
He slammed the log down for emphasis as his hunting companions grunted their 
agreement.
Tol’chuk didn’t know this giant og’re, but he recognized the pattern of the 
scarring on his bulging forearm. Ku’ukla clan—one of the most savage and bestial 
tribes. It had been a battle between this clan and Tol’chuk’s own that had 
gotten his father killed.
The brute’s companions circled tighter, all war-scarred and hardened. Their eyes 
glowed with blood lust.
“Be gone or die!” their leader warned.
Tol’chuk backed to Fardale and rose to his full height. The group cringed away 
from the sight of his straightening spine. Tol’chuk had forgotten that 
particular look of loathing and disgust.
Only the giant kept his position, undaunted, but recognition dawned in his 
piggish eyes. “He-who-walks-like-a-man,” he finally grunted. “Tol’chuk the 
Banished, son of Len’chuk of the Toktala clan.” The og’re spat into the creek as 
if the mention of his name had soured his mouth.
Tol’chuk flinched. He had not thought to be recognized so soon.
The leader’s muscles tensed. His shoulders rolled in a clear posture of
o
hatred and challenge, and his voice boomed. “You damn yourself by showing your 
face again. Your head will adorn our caves!”
With a roar, he advanced into the creek, waving the others to secure the flanks. 
They closed in from all sides.
Weaponless, Tol’chuk reached for the only means of protection at hand. He clawed 
open his thigh pouch and pulled out the heartstone. He lifted the stone high.
Six pairs of eyes flicked upward.
“Heartstone!” one of the pack exclaimed.
“The Heart of our people!” Tol’chuk boomed. Once before it had protected him 
from members of this same clan. He prayed to the Mother above that it would 
again. “I return it to the Triad. Do not block my path!”
The other og’res hesitated, but the leader advanced. “A trick… or stolen,” he 
rumbled. But as the giant lunged out of the creek, a new cry shattered the 
highlands—the piercing wail of another predator. For a breath, everyone froze in 
confusion and wariness. The giant stood, water sluicing over his scarred form.
Then a tumble of bodies burst forth from the creek.
Tol’chuk leaped back, stunned as a monstrous beast rolled across the far 
mudbank, landing amid the other og’res. It leaped to its clawed feet, snarling 
and spitting in blind fury. A sniffer! It ripped into the nearest og’re, going 
for the throat.
But two other figures rolled onto the near side of the creek—a boy and a man. 
They landed almost at the feet of the giant leader.
The man, bleeding, scrambled backward, yanking the boy clear as a club came 
smashing down at them, missing by a hair. Splinters flew as the log shattered in 
half from the force.
The og’re roared. “Demons!”
Fardale dashed to defend the newcomers. The man acknowledged the wolf without 
fear. “Well met, Fardale.” They retreated together.
Tol’chuk could not fathom their sudden appearance… or this recognition. What 
magick was this?
The child bared his chest to the man. “Quickly… while the path remains open. I 
sense it closing already.”
To Tol’chuk’s horror, the man plunged his sword into the child. With its touch, 
the boy dissolved into a tangle of wet weed. As the debris fell from the blade, 
a whisper of a voice followed. “Come back to me…”
“I will, my love.”
Tol’chuk now recognized the swarm of scars twisting one side of the man’s face. 
Jaston . . . the swamper. How could this be?
The giant again descended on man and wolf. Tol’chuk shook off his own shock and 
went to their aid. But Jaston danced lightly under the other’s guard and speared 
the giant’s elbow.
The og’re bellowed, sweeping backhanded at his attacker with the shattered end 
of his club. The swamp man went sailing into the air and crashed against the 
cliff face.
Fardale leaped between them, trying to protect the dazed swamper. Tol’chuk 
rushed forward, too.
But their help was not needed.
The giant teetered in place for a heartbeat, then toppled back into the creek 
with a loud splash. From his wounded elbow, his skin darkened and smoked. He did 
not move again.
“Poison,” Jaston explained from where he lay crumpled at the base of the cliff.
Across the creek, the sniffer had finally been dispatched, but two og’res lay 
dead. The remaining hunters retreated toward the woods. “Drag’nock!” one of them 
moaned as he fled.
Tol’chuk stared at the dead giant and cringed. Drag’noc’t—he knew that name and 
despaired. This giant had been the head of the entire Ku’ukla clan. Such a death 
would not go unchallenged. Those who fled would spread the tale; soon the drums 
of war would echo over the highlands.
Nearby, Fardale crossed to Jaston, nuzzling at the man in warm greeting. The 
swamper scratched the wolf behind an ear. “Good to see you again, too, Fardale.”
Tol’chuk turned to the highlands, clutching the chunk of crystal in his claws. 
He had come home to return the healed Heart to his people, to offer them hope 
and peace. Instead he opened the way for war and bloodshed.
Like the Oathbreaker, it seemed his name was to be forever cursed.
Mogweed screamed as he was ripped back to awareness. Sharp smells of pine and 
rain hit his sensitive nose, voices rang sharp and loud; lights stung his eyes 
like fiery needles; the taste of blood on his tongue gagged him. Mogweed raised 
his face—muzzle—from the belly of a half-chewed rabbit.
He leaped back from the bloody carcass in disgust. The sun’s last glimmer shone 
dully through a gray sky; he shook off the cobwebs of his dis-orientation. As he 
stared down at Fardale’s dinner, one lip raised in a silent snarl. His brother 
had known he would be returning to awareness as the sun set. Fardale had 
purposefully left this little trick, a message and reminder to his twin.
Well, curse you, Brother! This fate is not all my doing!
He opened himself to his shape-shifting gifts, touching that ember in his heart 
to flame. Bone, muscle, and skin bent to his will. He climbed out of the wolf 
shape, letting his form slide into its most familiar pattern. The smells grew 
less acute, the lights dimmer. Voices dipped to reasonable levels.
“It appears Mogweed’s returned,” Magnam said as he knelt over a tumble of 
sticks, preparing a fire. “How was your nap?”
It took Mogweed a moment to re-form his voice box, growling wolfishly before 
finding his proper tongue. “It… it’s no natural sleep,” he finally spat out. He 
sensed Fardale somewhere deep inside him, taking his place, returning to that 
dark prison. With nightfall, it was his brother’s turn to be locked in a cell 
without bars, able only to watch what transpired. In that other world, sleep was 
dreamless. Awakening from that slumber into full awareness was as painful as it 
was jolting, leaving no true rest.
He searched around him, reorienting himself. The group was setting up a camp in 
a shallow cave. He frowned. It was scant shelter against the wind and rain.
Mama Freda passed him a set of clothes. “Fardale left these this morning.”
Mogweed glanced down at his nakedness, half turning away in embarrassment.
“Nothing I ain’t seen,” the blind healer said, swinging back to her chores.
As Mogweed climbed shivering into his clothes, Magnam finally got the fire 
going. Once dressed, Mogweed stepped over and warmed his bare hands before the 
flames. Though summer was fully upon them, the highland nights were still icy 
with the touch of winter. The winds never seemed to stop blowing, and brief 
spats of rain struck like angry slaps. From the rumbles of thunder in the 
distance, he judged this night would be no different.
His eyes fell upon the newcomer to the group. Jaston stared back at Mogweed from 
across the fire, his mouth hanging open. His scars glowed bright red in the 
firelight, and not just from the flame’s heat. The swamp man glanced down with a 
shake of his head. “I… I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve never seen a shape-shifter 
change like that. Mycelle, when we were together, she never…” He waved his hand 
before his face.
Mogweed scowled. He had been traveling for so long with folk familiar with 
shape-shifting that the man’s response grated, but he kept his mouth shut. He 
owed his life to this swamper’s sudden appearance.
“Mycelle…” Jaston continued to blather, “I never saw her change.”
Mogweed sighed, tired of the man’s squirming, and removed the swamper from his 
own hook. “She never changed because when you knew her she had settled into the 
human form, forsaking her shape-shifting nature.” His voice dropped to a bitter 
mumble. “Then she died and was resurrected by that cursed snake that gave her 
back her si’luran gifts.” Mogweed swung away from the fire. For the thousandth 
time, he wished he had never meddled with her rainbow-striped viper. His attempt 
to break the curse upon him and his brother had only resulted in an even worse 
binding.
He slipped past Mama Freda and Jerrick as they laid out bedrolls side by side. 
They both moved as if they were already half asleep.
Mogweed crossed to the cave’s entrance, joining Tol’chuk. The large fellow 
seldom talked, but his silences and simple companionship were a balm for 
Mogweed’s own frustration and pain. He had not wanted to set out on this 
journey, preferring the safety of A’loa Glen—but Fardale had volunteered them. 
And since Mogweed was forced to venture out, he was glad he had the og’re at his 
side.
He kept vigil with Tol’chuk, watching for any marauding hunters. “I thought we 
were supposed to have reached your home caves by now.”
Tol’chuk shrugged.
Mogweed could guess the delay. After the attack on Fardale, the group had 
proceeded through the mountains warily, moving in a tighter group, cautious. The 
extra care had slowed their progress so much that Mogweed had eventually dozed 
off inside Fardale’s skull, only waking again when the curse pushed him back 
into his body, greeting him with a mouthful of raw rabbit.
He was sure Fardale was wolfishly laughing somewhere deep in his head. Laugh 
now, Brother, he thought, but I swear I’ll get the last laugh.
After a time, Magnam returned with a bit of stew for each of them, steaming in 
the cold air. Tol’chuk accepted his bowl wordlessly, lost in his own worries.
Mogweed sniffed at his meal, then curled his nose. “Rabbit!”
Magnam chuckled. “Fardale caught two. He likes to share.”
Mogweed shoved his bowl back at the d’warf. “I’m not hungry.”
“More for me then.” Magnam added Mogweed’s stew to his own, then handed the dish 
back to Mogweed. “The kettle is cooling beside the fire.”
“So?”
Magnam pointed out into the dark. “There’s a stream just yonder. Should be great 
for cleaning the cookery. Nice and cold, like you like it.”
Mogweed opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. What was the use of arguing? 
Whether he had eaten of this meal or not, he knew his duty. Besides, the chore 
would give him a way to wile away the lonely nighttime hours. Each evening, he 
returned to this form only to find the others climbing into their bedrolls, 
leaving the long night to himself. It left him too much time to think, too much 
time to curse his present state.
“I’m for bed,” the d’warf said, wiping the last of the stew from his bowl with 
his fingers and tossing the empty dish to Mogweed.
The others soon followed his lead.
Only Tol’chuk remained unmoving, crouched by the entrance, his amber eyes aglow.
Mogweed gathered the cooking utensils in a sack, then grabbed up his own pack. 
He crossed to the og’re. “Where’s this creek?”
Tol’chuk pointed. “Beyond that boulder. It runs in a shallow bed.”
Mogweed hesitated. With the moon and stars masked by clouds, the night beyond 
the cave was dark. “Any og’res?” he asked, staring out warily.
“Just half a one,” Tol’chuk mumbled, referring to himself.
Mogweed patted his elbow. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he found himself 
assuring his large companion. “And neither do I,” he added in a whisper to both 
himself and the wolf inside him. // wasn’t all my fault.
“I’ll watch over you,” Tol’chuk said.
Mogweed nodded and set off down the loose escarpment of shale and dirt. He slung 
the sack of dirty bowls and pots over one shoulder, his own small pack over the 
other. He shifted muscles in his arms and back to better bear the load, swelling 
them. The warm flow of tissue reassured him.
Despite his predicament, it was wonderful to use his si’luran abilities again. 
Full transformations—like the one from wolf to man or back— were taxing, but 
small adjustments were effortless and fatigued his flesh very little.
As he marched down the short slope, he appreciated the body he wore. It was as 
comfortable as a worn boot. After wearing this shape for so long, it was like a 
rut worn in a dirt track—easy to slip into, easy to follow. But with the return 
of his abilities, small enhancements were now possible. He shivered out a layer 
of insulating fur over his cold cheeks, sharpened the vision of his eyes so he 
could see in the dark. Perhaps this curse is not as bad as it seemed…
Rounding the boulder, he spotted the small creek. It was only a step wide, 
gurgling down a shallow rock channel. Mogweed shrugged off his packs, dropping 
the bag of dirty dishes with a clatter, then lowering his own pack carefully. 
Settling to his haunches, he glanced over a shoulder to make sure the boulder 
was between him and the og’re.
Satisfied, he let his eyelids drift closed and felt for those hidden eyes— 
Fardale’s eyes. Over the many moons since their joining, Mogweed had learned to 
recognize when his brother was awake inside him by a telltale tingle, that tiny 
sense of a stranger’s eyes on the back of the neck. He felt nothing like that 
now. Mogweed smiled. As usual, Fardale was fast asleep. After the long hike, his 
brother must be as tired as the others and not particularly interested in 
watching Mogweed scrub dirty bowls.
Alone for the moment, Mogweed untied the leather strings of his pack, making 
sure the carefully tied knot was the same as when he left it. It appeared 
untouched: No one had rummaged among his private things.
He smiled. With Fardale spending all his time in wolf form, he ignored
Mogweed’s pack—as did the others. Its contents were his alone, items collected 
on his long journey among these lands.
Mogweed sifted through the pack, pushing past his own clothes and then a broken 
iron chain and collar from a sniffer that Tol’chuk had slain in these same hills 
so long ago. A tiny goatskin pouch bulged with a few pinches of Elena’s red 
hair. He scrabbled a moldy walnut out of the way. And at last, in the deepest 
corner of his pack, his fingers reached stone wrapped in linen. He hauled it 
out.
Sitting back on his heels, he settled the object on a flat rock and pulled away 
the folded cloth. The ebon’stone bowl sucked in what little light there was 
behind the sheltering boulder. He checked again behind him, making sure he was 
not spied upon.
He studied the small treasure. It had once belonged to the spider 
wit’ch—Vira’ni. He ran one finger along the lip of the bowl. Oily to the touch 
and oddly cold, its surface felt like fever sweat on a dying man.
He bit his lip. Almost every night he stared at the bowl, daring himself to take 
the next step. And each night he folded the linen back over his secret prize. 
After the failed attempt to free himself from his twin—the result of which was 
this strange fusion of forms—Mogweed knew there was only one way to break the 
curse that joined brother to brother. It would take a stronger magick than even 
Elena offered, and there was only one source of that magick: the Dark Lord of 
Gul’gotha, the ancestor of Tol’chuk.
Long ago, in the ancient Keep of Shadowbrook, Mogweed had spoken to the Dark 
Lord. The monster had spoken through the stone lips of a blackguard, a voice as 
empty and dead as an open crypt: For now, stay with those who aid the wit’ch. A 
time may come when I will as’t more of you.
Mogweed knew that for his curse to be lifted, he would have to face that demon 
again. And he had learned from the pale twin lordlings of Shadowbrook that the 
blood of an elemental given to the bowl would call the Black Beast.
He stared at the ebon’stone. Over the past nights, he had feared doing what must 
be done. What will be asked of me? he wondered. He glanced back to the cave. He 
had traveled far from the side of the wit’ch, the Dark Lord’s nemesis. But he 
knew that his role here with the others was not insignificant. They had entered 
the og’re homelands seeking the answer to the mystery of ebon’stone, the base 
upon which the Dark Lord built and wielded his power. If that answer was ever 
discovered, the allies of the wit’ch would gain a marked advantage.
Mogweed shivered. Did he dare play with the power here? Then again, dare he not? 
Would he be forever doomed to walk in darkness, never seeing the light of day? 
At the back of his mouth, he still tasted the retch of raw rabbit. Would he be 
forever yoked to his twin?
Bile burned in his belly. His fingers clenched. This curse must be lifted, no 
matter what the cost.
Twisting to his pack, he rummaged inside and found a bit of caked and shredded 
cloth—a bandage that the mountain man, Krai, had worn after being attacked by 
the d’warves near Castle Mryl. Krai had been an elemental steeped in the magick 
of the mountains’ granite roots. Mogweed had saved the bloody scrap in case he 
ever risked contacting the Dark Lord. He didn’t know if the dried blood would 
ignite the magick of the bowl, but he was determined for once to try, for time 
was running short. They were in the heart of og’re territory. It was now or 
never—and never was not an option.
With trembling fingers, he dropped the reddish-brown bandage to the bottom of 
the bowl. He held his breath and waited, watching.
Nothing happened. The bowl continued to suck in the feeble light. The crumpled 
bit of cloth simply rested in the center.
Mogweed sighed out his trapped breath. “It must take fresh blood,” he whispered 
in frustration. He considered his options. Both Jerrick and Mama Freda bore 
elemental gifts. But how could he get their blood?
As he pondered his choices, a stench suddenly swelled around him, as if 
something had died and rotted under his toes. Mogweed tensed, fearing something 
had crept up on him unaware. He remembered the smell of the og’res through 
Fardale’s nose. They had reeked of wet goats and blood. But this smell was much 
worse.
He scanned the dark forests across the creek, afraid to move and draw attention 
to himself. Then motion drew his eye—not from the woods, but from the bowl near 
his knees.
The bandage in the bowl twisted upon itself like a blind worm. The smell grew 
stronger around him.
With icy terror lacing his blood, Mogweed watched the brown stain on the cloth 
drain into the stone of the bowl. In a matter of heartbeats, the white cloth lay 
pristine against the black ebon’stone, quiet again.
Mogweed swallowed hard. The stench was now overpowering. Gorge rose in his 
throat. Surely Tol’chuk would smell the corruption and come to investigate.
Fearing discovery, he reached to the linen wrap, meaning to cover the bowl 
again, but as his fingers neared the ebon’stone, the bit of cloth burst into 
flame—not with the fiery red of true flame, but with flickers of darkness: cj
darkfire. The hungry flames ate the light and heat from around the shelter. But 
as the cloth was consumed, the pyre refused to die away. Flames continued to 
dance darkly from the hollow of the bowl, reaching high above the rim.
Mogweed snatched his hand away, his fingers frozen from the cold. What have I 
done? Where a moment before he feared discovery, he now wished Tol’chuk would 
appear and rescue him. Surely the og’re noticed something amiss: the smell, the 
strange bloom of cold…
From the flames, a voice crept out like spiders on silk. “So the little mouse 
roars.”
Without turning his head, Mogweed’s gaze flicked to the caves, hoping Tol’chuk 
heard the icy voice of the demon. He was too scared to run, too frightened even 
to use his shape-shifting gifts. He was once again frozen in this form.
“No one will hear our words. No one will smell the open path—not even the wolf 
slumbering inside you. You are alone.”
He cringed from these words as the cold fog of the voice wrapped around him. His 
panted breath steamed in the frigid cloud. The nearby creek rimed with ice.
“We taste your heart, shape-shifter. You reek of desire.”
Mogweed forced his tongue to speak. “I… I want to be free of my brother.”
The black flames coiled like snakes. “You ask our help, but do nothing to earn 
it.”
“I will… I want… anything…”
“That will be seen. Do as we ask, when we ask, and we will free you.”
Mogweed clenched his cold hands, bringing blood into his fingers. To be 
separated from his brother… to walk again free of Fardale’s shadow.
“We will burn the wolf from your heart,” the voice whispered, edged with frost. 
“Your body will be your own.”
“Burn the wolf…” he mumbled, not liking the sound of that. “Do you mean kill 
him?”
“There is only one body crouching here. There can only be one master of it.”
Mogweed balked. How he longed to be free of Fardale’s yoke. In fact, he’d be 
happy never to see his brother’s face again. But to kill him? Could he go that 
far?
“What would you ask of me?” he finally blurted.
The ice in the air grew even more frigid. “You must destroy the Spirit Gate.”
Mogweed frowned, not understanding at first. “What gate is… ?” Then he 
remembered: the arch of heartstone under the Fang. It was the magickal portal 
through which Tol’chuk had been exiled into the world and sent to heal the 
jeweled Heart of the Og’res. “The Spirit Gate… How can / destroy it?”
The voice grew, filling his head. “It must be shattered with the blood of my 
last seed!”
Mogweed paled. He meant Tol’chuk!
“And not just a dribble of blood, shape-shifter,” the voice finished. “Not like 
the bit you offered the stone here—but blood squeezed from the seed’s very 
heart. His last blood.”
Mogweed shivered, and it had nothing to do with the magick-wrought chill in the 
air. His own blood pounded in his ears, his heart in his throat.
The flames dancing in the bowl died down as the spell frazzled away. “Slay the 
og’re by the Gate, and you will be free.” The voice drifted away. Then a last 
whisper reached him as the darkfire pyre extinguished: “But fail us, and your 
screams will echo forever.”
Then the woods grew brighter, warmer, the air clean and crisp. It was like 
awakening from a nightmare. But Mogweed knew this was no figment. He slowly 
folded the linen wrap back over the ebon’stone bowl, silently wishing he had 
never touched the cursed thing.
But deeper inside him, a glimmer of hope burned. To be free…
He shoved the bowl into his pack and cinched the leather knot, tying it 
specially. Once done, he hauled to his feet. His legs were numb, his mind dull 
with dread. He stumbled around the boulder and stared up at the tiny glow of 
their campfire. Limned against the brightness was a dark shadow.
Tol’chu’t.
Mogweed climbed toward the light, scrabbling up the slight slope. The amber eyes 
of the og’re studied him.
Mogweed could not meet that gaze.
Tol’chuk’s face scrunched in confusion. “Where be the bowls?”
He flinched, thinking the og’re meant the ebon’stone talisman. Then realized the 
og’re only meant the dirty cookware. Mogweed pointed to the slope. “I left it 
beside the creek. I’ll scrub ‘em later. It’s too cold right now.”
Mogweed tried to slip past the og’re to reach the warmth of the fire, but 
Tol’chuk stopped him.
“Be anything wrong, Mogweed?”
He raised his face to the og’re, meeting his concerned gaze, burning under it. 
“No,” he mumbled. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
“It is a
Tol’chuk patted his shoulder. In the distance, thunder rolled.
bad night. Stay by the fire.“
Mogweed moved past the og’re, glad to escape his gaze. Reaching the campfire, he 
glanced back to the entrance. Tol’chuk sat hunched, staring out into the night, 
protecting them, watching for any dangers beyond, unaware of the closer threat.
In Mogweed’s mind, icy words repeated in his head: Slay the og re by the Gate, 
and you will be free. He faced the fire, turning his back on Tol’chuk.
He had no choice.
Tol’chuk marched through the morning drizzle. Overhead the skies were a 
featureless gray. His companions trailed behind, sodden, slogging, already 
exhausted. The dreary weather seemed to sap the strength from both leg and 
heart. They climbed the last switchback to reach a long ridgeline.
He paused at the top. Fardale loped up from where he had been guarding their 
rear. Ahead the valley was a mix of scraggly trees, bushes, rock, and thorn. 
Meadow grasses blanketed the rest, trampled into paths. Tol’chuk had forgotten 
how green the valley was in the spring. Wildflow-ers brightened patches: yellow 
honeysuckle, blue irises, red highland poppies. His heart filled with memories.
At the end of the valley, a sheer cliff face blocked the way, a root of the 
Great Fang itself. A black opening yawned near its base.
“Home.” The word was a mumbled sigh.
Fardale growled.
Then Tol’chuk saw them, too. Movement drew his eye. What had appeared to be 
granite boulders suddenly sprouted limbs and loped away, bleating and raising an 
alarm. Even through the rain, Tol’chuk smelled the musk of the frightened 
females. Smaller than their male counterparts, they must have been out grubbing 
and rooting for tubers and greens. They fled toward the caves, scattering a herd 
of milk goats.
Tol’chuk led the way down, motioning the others closer. Near the mouth of the 
tunnel, movement could be seen. Tol’chuk stopped. “Stay together at my side. Do 
not make any threatening moves.”
From the cave, a large group of og’res thundered out—males, the hunters and 
warriors. They ran at the intruders, knuckling on their arms.
I
The ground shook as they pounded forward. Most bore clubs or chunks of stone in 
their claws.
“Let me speak,” Tol’chuk whispered to them needlessly.
Magnam stepped to his shoulder. “You’re the only one who speaks the language.”
Jaston stepped to Tol’chuk’s other side. “But will they listen to you?” Tol’chuk 
heard the frightened thread in their voices. The others gathered in his shadow 
as the herd of og’res bore down on them.
Mama Freda’s pet tamrink whined on the healer’s shoulder. “Big, big, big…”
Jerrick took the old healer’s hand.
The thunder of the og’re charge echoed off the cliff face, sounding like the 
advance of an army. Tol’chuk stepped forward. He reached into his thigh pouch 
and pulled out the chunk of heartstone. He raised it high, straightening his 
back to stand taller.
“I am Tol’chuk, son of Len’chuk of the Toktala clan!” he boomed out in the og’re 
tongue, challenging the thunderous echo with his own voice. “I come at the 
bidding of the Triad!”
His words seemed to have little impact on the avalanche heading their way. 
Tol’chuk felt his companions close in behind his back; he kept his position, 
rock-steady before the onslaught. “Don’t move,” he murmured in the common tongue 
to his friends.
The wave of og’res reached them, parting to either side and encircling the 
group, with weapons at ready. The silence was even more intimidating than the 
thunder from a moment before.
Tol’chuk found himself facing a scarred boulder of an og’re. The ridge bristles 
spiked along his arched back and almond eyes squinted with menace. Tol’chuk knew 
this og’re—and he knew Tol’chu’t.
“You slew my son,” the og’re grumbled, his eyes flaming with fury. It was 
Hun’shwa, the father of Fen’shwa, a young thug of an og’re that Tol’chuk had 
accidentally killed on the eve of his magra ceremony. When last Tol’chuk had 
seen this og’re, the father had been stricken with grief and despair.
His words now were spoken like a warrior. No grief sounded in his voice; it was 
shame to openly show sorrow for the dead. But anger rang as clear as a crack of 
lightning.
“I did,” Tol’chuk admitted. He didn’t try to explain how he had been defending 
himself against an ignominious attack by the other. A father did not need to 
hear those words, and those words did not forgive the act.
“Why should I not kill you all and grind your bones to dust?”
The answer did not come from Tol’chuk, but from the skies overhead. The blanket 
of perpetual clouds parted, and a dazzling ray of sunshine shone through, 
illuminating the valley, brightening the green floor, casting a rainbow through 
the mists to the south.
But all of this paled when compared to the beauty of sunlight striking the 
raised chunk of heartstone. The Heart ignited with inner fire. A deep warm glow 
pushed back the morning chill and opened all their eyes to the majesty of life 
around them. For a moment as the Heart ignited, every living thing shone with 
its own inner light and force.
Gasps arose from the hardened hunters and warriors. Weapons were lowered. Some 
fell to their knees.
Tol’chuk stepped forward, keeping the stone in the sunlight. He held it out 
toward Hun’shwa. It glowed like its name, the true Heart of his people. Even a 
vengeful father could not deny the truth before him.
“This is why I came back,” Tol’chuk said. “To make sure your son and all other 
spirits of our people could enter the next world. I do the bidding of the Triad. 
I ask that you allow us to pass.”
The older og’re stared at the stone. One clawed hand reached toward the 
brilliant facets. “Fen’shwa…” Grief again sounded in his voice.
A few of his fellow hunters and warriors glanced away. Do not see the grieving. 
But Tol’chuk stared at the father. “He has passed beyond.”
Hun’shwa held his hand over the stone as if warming his fingers before a fire. 
“I feel him.” Tears rolled down the craggy features. “Fen’shwa…”
Tol’chuk remained silent, allowing this father his moment of communion with his 
son. No one spoke; no one moved.
Finally storm winds closed the gap in the clouds, and the Heart’s glow dimmed 
and faded. A fine drizzle shed from the skies, misting over the valley.
Hun’shwa pulled back his arm; the red fury had died in his eyes. He turned away 
with a grunt. He had not forgiven Tol’chuk, only acknowledged his right to live. 
The other og’res followed his lead and swung away.
“Is it safe to go with them?” Jaston asked. His face was white.
Tol’chuk nodded. “We’ve been accepted. But tread carefully and stay at my side.”
“Like a leech,” Magnam promised. He and the rest eyed the giants around them 
nervously, but they crossed the valley unmolested.
Once near the cavern opening, Fardale sniffed the air. Tol’chuk noticed the 
smell, too. Cooking fires, morning porridges, and the overpowering odor of 
og’res. The smell brought Tol’chuk back home. He remembered the happy times with 
his father, and with the few friends who would play with the misshapen og’re, 
the games of toddledarts beside the fire at night. But also came darker 
memories: being shunned for his half-breed status, the ridicule, the rejection, 
and worst of all, the day his father’s limp body had been carried past him, 
still bloody from the spear wound. He had never been so alone.
His feet slowed as he neared the dark threshold. The lights of hearths glowed 
inside, but after the long journey here, Tol’chuk feared taking these last 
steps.
He felt a touch on his elbow. Magnam whispered up to him while staring straight 
ahead. “You’re not alone,” he said, repeating his earlier words.
Tol’chuk glanced around and realized Magnam was right. While out among the lands 
of Alasea, in a world so much larger than a single cave, he had formed a new 
family. Taking heart and strength from those at his side, Tol’chuk ended his 
exile.
He walked forward under the arch of granite.
Once past the entrance, it took him a breath for his eyes to adjust to the gloom 
of the gigantic cavern. Small fires marked the hearths of each family, bordered 
by stacked boulders decorated with carved bones. Beyond these home fires, 
tunnels and smaller caves opened into the family warrens.
Almost every hearth was empty. Tol’chuk was sure the young ones and females were 
all in their warrens, hiding from these strangers. Only a few bent-backed 
elders, old hunters, guarded their dens with sharpened logs, eyeing the 
newcomers with sharp suspicion.
Hun’shwa guided them deeper into the cavern. Tol’chuk spotted his own family 
caves—dark, cold, and empty. The spark of familial strength he had felt a moment 
ago dimmed at the sight of a crossed set of deer antlers across the low 
bouldered gate to the homestead. He knew what the tiny rat skulls dangling from 
them meant: cursed.
Even the neighboring dens were vacant and empty. No one was taking any risks 
when it came to curses.
Tol’chuk could not blame them. His family traced its roots to the Oath-breaker. 
Was it any surprise that doom and failure grew out of that accursed lineage?
From a safe distance away, Hun’shwa pointed to the entrance of the warren. “You 
stay here.”
Tol’chuk nodded. He stepped forward and lifted apart the crossed antlers, 
rattling the old rat skulls. From the corner of his eye, he saw the nearest 
flank of og’res back away. Tol’chuk ignored them and waved the
[
others through the waist-high gate. “They’ve given us these caves,” he said in 
the common tongue to his friends. “We can camp here.”
“We will bring you wood for your fire,” Hun’shwa grumbled as the other og’res 
dispersed. Once they had cleared away, Hun’shwa approached the stone fence.
Tol’chuk readied himself to be accosted or challenged by the father of Fen’shwa. 
Instead Hun’shwa reached out and rested a clawed hand on the top stone. 
Tol’chuk’s eyes widened. To touch a cursed homestead was a brave act.
Hun’shwa spoke in a graveled whisper. “Fen’shwa has passed beyond. You’ve freed 
his spirit. A father knows these things.”
Tol’chuk bowed his head in acknowledgment.
“And though I cannot forgive you for taking my son from me and lessening the joy 
of my family’s hearth, I thank you for bringing us some peace.”
ToPchuk could hear the strain in the other’s voice. These were not easy words. 
Neither were the next.
“Be welcomed home, Tol’chuk, son of Len’chuk.” Hun’shwa grunted and swung away, 
knuckling across the cavern into the gloom.
Tol’chuk watched after him, feeling the first flicker of acceptance. Magnam 
stepped over to him. “What was that about?”
Tol’chuk shook his head. “Putting ghosts to rest,” he mumbled, and turned to 
help set up camp and bring life back to the cold and empty hearth. It wasn’t his 
blood lineage returned, but it was still family. Maybe this one could lift the 
curse from the other.
Around the home cave, og’res reappeared from their warrens, returning to stoke 
fires and stir pots. A pair of females slunk over with an armload of wood that 
they tossed from beyond the stone fence, fearing to approach any nearer.
As Tol’chuk gathered the scattered branches, he felt a prickle of warning over 
his skin, a bristling of hair along his arms and neck. Then a deep chiming 
echoed through the cavern, reverberating off the domed ceiling, vibrating his 
very bones. Even the hearth fires dimmed, smothered by the sound.
Across the room, all og’res stopped their work.
Mama Freda stood nearby. Tikal ran across from his exploration of a pile of 
bones and leaped to her shoulder. “What is it?” she asked as the sonorous toning 
continued.
“It be a call,” Tol’chuk whispered.
The noise seemed to rattle the stone under his feet. It was as if someone
[ o had struck the granite heart of the mountain with a monstrous crystal 
hammer.
Mama Freda consoled her pet as it cowered. “A call? From whom? For what?”
“The Triad calls for all the og’res to assemble.”
Jaston moved closer with the elv’in captain. “But why?” He stared over the 
cavern. “Most of you are already here.”
“No,” Tol’chuk said, “you don’t understand. It be a summons for all og’res. 
Every clan, every og’re, young or old, male or female.”
“Does this happen often?” Mama Freda asked.
Tol’chuk shook his head. “Only once before during my lifetime, when I was a 
child. It be during the last og’re war, when clan fought clan. The Triad called 
the assembly to broker peace.”
“And now?”
“I do not know.” He thought upon the conflict with the og’res from the Ku’ukla 
tribe, the death of their leader. Did the Triad already know?
Slowly the chiming slowed and stopped. Across the chamber, no one moved from the 
hearths. Low murmurs echoed among a few tribe members.
“Look,” Magnam said. “Someone comes.” He pointed toward the deepest recesses of 
the central cave.
A bluish light flickered, outlining a long crack in the back wall, growing 
brighter as someone approached.
They were not the only ones to notice the intrusion. The low murmurs died away; 
even the fearful cries of the females were extinguished.
Limned in blue flame, a figure limped from the crack, then another, then one 
more: three ancient og’res, naked and gnarled. Their eyes glowed, shining green 
in the darkness.
“The Triad,” Tol’chuk breathed.
He watched the skeletal ghosts hobble across the granite floor. Og’res fell to 
their knees, bowing their heads, hiding their eyes. The trio were the spiritual 
guardians of the og’re clans, the walkers of the dead. They seldom left their 
own caves and tunnels, but now the trio sidled wordlessly down the central path 
of the home cave, moving with clear determination.
Tol’chuk remained unbowed as they approached. He had walked the path of the dead 
to the Spirit Gate at its end. While he respected the Triad, he no longer feared 
them. He had done his duty, freed the Heart of their people. A spark of fire 
entered his heart: They had kept so much from him, sending him blind into the 
world, knowing that he would discover the truth, but not preparing him.
The Triad stopped before the gate to his homestead and spoke, though it was 
impossible to say which one uttered the words: “You know the truth now.”
Tol’chuk’s eyes narrowed. The spark in his heart flamed hotter. “You should have 
told me.”
“It is not our way.” Words rose like mist from the group. “The Heart of our 
people had to guide you… not just your own.”
“And what now? I’ve rid the heartstone of the Bane. But what of the 
Oathbreaker?”
The lead og’re reached a frail arm toward Tol’chuk. There was no doubt what was 
asked.
Tol’chuk retrieved the heartstone from his thigh pouch. Even in the feeble 
flames of the cavern, the jewel sparked with an inner radiance. He held out the 
stone, and clawed fingers wrapped around it.
“At last.” The words were an exhalation of relief. The lead og’re turned his 
back on Tol’chuk and showed the stone to the others. The Triad gathered closer. 
From among them, the ruby radiance of the Heart flared momentarily brighter. 
“We’ve waited so long.” This last sounded so tired and forlorn. “Let it be 
done.”
The glow burst out, blinding. The three og’res were shadows in the glare.
Around the cave, exclamations of alarm arose.
“What’s happening?” Jaston gasped.
Tol’chuk simply stared, bathed in the edge of the glow himself, awash again with 
the beauty of all living things, himself included. He stood taller, straighter, 
unashamed.
Then in a flicker, the light snuffed out. Darkness descended. Tol’chuk felt a 
hollowness in his heart as the glow left him. Heavy silence again blanketed the 
cave.
In the feeble shine of firelight, the Triad continued to stand in a cluster 
around the Heart. From deep in the mountain, the dark chime sounded once more, a 
single reverberating note, somehow mournful this time. At the threshold to 
Tol’chuk’s homestead, three bodies collapsed to the stone floor with a rattle of 
bone and limb. The Heart fell amidst the tangle of limbs.
Tol’chuk lunged forward, but he knew the truth before he reached their bodies. 
The ancient og’res were dead.
As he knelt on the stone floor, other og’res rushed forward, including Hun’shwa. 
He stared across the dead bodies to Tol’chuk, his eyes on fire. “You’ve slain 
the Triad!” io
Cassa Dar sat in the libraries of Castle Drakk, In her heart, she sensed the 
danger to Jaston and the others. Though her magick’s reach did not extend all 
the way to the Northern Fang, there were bonds deeper than elemental magick 
between her and the swamp man she loved.
Frightened for Jaston, she hunched over the books strewn across the table. With 
no other eyes to spy on her, she did not bother with the glamor of her magick 
and simply worked in her true form: a d’warf, wrinkled and bent by centuries of 
time. She rested one finger on a page in the ancient text she was perusing, a 
tome that spoke at length on the magickal connection between the two Fangs. A 
new dread filled her chest and quickened her breath. Straightening, she waved to 
one of her swamp children. “Fetch the map from over there!”
The small boy scampered from his post by the table. In a moment he returned, 
burdened with a long, rolled parchment. She snatched it and quickly unrolled it, 
spreading all of Alasea before her. She read the passage again from the book and 
quickly scanned the jotted calculations and noted the paths of power written in 
the margins. She sat back and closed her eyes.
Both the Fangs were fonts of the Land’s elemental power; from their slopes, 
veins of power flowed down into Alasea like snowmelt. It was one of these 
silvery veins that the Dark Lord had sought to sever during his invasion into 
these very lands. The damage done had caused the sinking of this region, turning 
plains into swamps and half drowning the island of
A’loa Glen.
But it was not the vein that ran down into her lands that concerned her now—but 
those that ran between the peaks. She traced a finger on the map while repeating 
the words from the book. “Where the northern-flowing veins of the Southern Fang 
merge with the southern-flowing veins of the northern peak, a twisted knot of 
power exists, a twining centered between the two mountains.” She followed the 
calculations to the point on the map: Winter’s Eyrie. She also saw the small 
town in its shadow. Winterfell—the home of the wit’ch.
Deeper than her bonds to Jaston, Cassa Dar was tied to the Land itself. She knew 
that whatever affliction weakened her came from there. Touching the map she 
could almost sense the malignancy there. “Winter’s Eyrie…” she whispered. She 
pushed from her desk. She had to let the wit’ch know that some-i thing foul was 
afoot. She headed toward the tower-top rookery, to send a crow to A’loa Glen. 
She prayed word reached someone in time.
As she climbed the stairs, her fears for Jaston grew in her heart. She clenched 
a fist to her chest. “Be careful, my love.”
Jaston stood with the others, clustered behind Tol’chuk. The og’re still knelt 
before the bodies of the elderly trio. The chunk of heartstone nestled among 
their dead limbs and lifeless forms like a bright egg in a dreadful nest.
Beyond their bodies, a wall of og’res had formed, led by the same one who had 
challenged them earlier. His words were unintelligible to Jaston, just the 
grunts and growls of og’re speak. But the giant’s fury and accusation were 
clear. Blasted by this tirade, Tol’chuk remained silent, kneeling by the bodies.
Fardale brushed against Jaston’s leg. The swamp man felt the tremble as the 
giant treewolf readied for a fight. Beyond Fardale, Jerrick kept one arm around 
Mama Freda, while sparks danced among the fingertips on his other hand. Magnam’s 
hand rested on the hilt of his ax. All were ready to defend themselves and their 
friend.
The angry og’re in the lead moved in Tol’chuk’s direction, clearly having 
finally stoked enough fury to risk stepping through the fallen dead. But before 
he could reach the nest of bodies, the egg at its center flared brighter, 
warding him away. From the glow, a dark mist spread out.
All backed away, except for Tol’chuk. He simply stared at the display.
The strange fog swirled high, spinning off in three directions, then sweeping 
back to the stone floor. Each cloud of black mist condensed down, forming the 
figure of an og’re, twisted and skeletal. Even Jaston recognized the Triad. It 
was as if their shadows had come to life.
Og’res fell to their knees before the sight. Even the leader dropped with a 
small cry of surprise.
From this misty trio, words flowed, but it was hard to say which shadow spoke. 
Even more surprising, though the words were clearly og’re speak, Jaston 
understood their meaning.
“We are free at lassst,” the shadows intoned, their words echoing as if coming 
from afar. “For centuries we have held off passing until the Heart was purified, 
opening the path to the spiritual lands beyond. Now we can shed our weakening 
bodies. It is time for a new leader to guard the clans. It is time for the three 
to become the one.”
I I O
A misty arm pointed back to Tol’chuk. “Rise and claim the Heart. The burden is 
now yours.”
Tol’chuk’s eyes widened. He made a sound of refusal, speaking Og’re.
“Half-breed or not, you are og’re,” the shadowy figures answered dolefully. 
“Take the Heart and fear not. We will remain in the stone between the two worlds 
to guide you where we can.”
Still Tol’chuk balked, shaking his head.
The words of the ghosts grew sharper. “Do you forsake your duty like your 
ancestor?”
Tol’chuk’s head sprang up.
The words softened. “It is true. The Oathbreaker refused the mantle of 
guardianship in his time. Will you walk his path or your own?”
Silence again pressed down on the cavern. Then Tol’chuk rose to his feet. 
Reaching over the bodies, he lifted the jewel from the tangle of limbs. Its glow 
flared brighter, as if it recognized him.
“The assembly has been summoned for this night,” the ghosts echoed. “Go take 
your place as leader. Dark times lie ahead for our people. Even we can’t see 
down that twisted path. Let the Heart guide you.”
The three figures dissolved back to mists and drew into the stone, like smoke up 
a chimney flue. Words still flowed: “As with your last journey, you know your 
first step… You know where you must go.”
Tol’chuk’s face tightened.
Jaston saw the understanding in his amber eyes—and the fear.
Tol’chuk stared into the crystal planes of the heartstone as the last of the 
Triad vanished. Deep in his own heart, he felt familiar hooks take root. This 
same stone had guided him across Alasea, drawing him along the path to the 
carved mountain in Gul’gotha. But this time he felt no compulsion, no direction. 
From here, though he was linked to the Heart, he would need to decide his own 
path.
The fate of the og’re people now rested with him. Dar’t times lie ahead. 
Tol’chuk did not doubt the final words of the Triad. The Oathbreaker still 
lived. The Beast would not ignore his people forever, especially while his 
descendant plotted against him.
Tol’chuk lowered the stone and stared across the Triad’s corpses to those 
kneeling beyond: males and females, the old and the young, the strong and the 
infirm. They knew nothing of the world beyond their lands, or of the danger on 
their doorstep.
Tol’chuk stood straighter, no longer hiding his half-breed status. What
üi had once shamed him now seemed insignificant. After the horrors and the acts 
of bravery he had witnessed on his long journey, by peoples from all the lands, 
such trifles as mixed blood paled to nothing.
As the Triad had stated, he was og’re. These were his people. And it was time 
for him to wake them.
His eyes fell upon Hun’shwa. The leader of the warriors kept his head bowed. 
“Hun’shwa,” Tol’chuk said. “Rise.”
The og’re obeyed, but would not meet his gaze.
“I’ll need three of your hunters to carry our fallen into the Chamber of the 
Spirits.”
The other grunted to those who flanked him; they carefully began clearing the 
bodies. Hun’shwa addressed Tol’chuk. “What of the Assembly, the summons?”
Tol’chuk frowned; the warrior was right. The other tribes would gather at the 
Dragon’s Skull, unaware of what had occurred here. His own Toktala clan must 
appear, too. He motioned to Hun’shwa. “Gather our people. We will head out with 
the setting sun.”
Hun’shwa glanced up, eyes flashing. “But the Triad summoned the gathering, and 
now they are gone. Who will speak?”
Tol’chuk had not considered that far.
Hun’shwa pointed to Tol’chuk and answered his own question. “The elders called 
you the One. You must lead the Assembly.”
Tol’chuk began to object, but he had no argument. It seemed the Triad had not 
wanted to give Tol’chuk a chance to shirk his duties. This very night, before 
all the clans, Tol’chuk would need to claim the mantle of spiritual leader.
He tightened his hold on the jeweled stone. “If I must speak, I will need time 
to prepare.”
Tol’chuk watched the elders’ bodies being hauled toward the flame-lit crack in 
the back wall and remembered the last words of the Triad: You know your first 
step… You know where you must go. Tol’chuk sighed. Long ago, he had carried the 
limp form of Fen’shwa through the crack to the Chamber of the Spirits beyond. 
There he had first faced the Triad and had begun the path that had led full 
circle back to here.
Holding the stone to his chest, Tol’chuk strode through the cursed gate of his 
old homestead.
“Where are you going?” Magnam asked behind him. Tol’chuk pointed toward the 
bluish flames. He spoke without turning, without stopping. “I must walk the path 
of the dead.”
I I
Through her pet’s eyes, Mama Freda watched the giant stride away. The other 
og’res fled from his path, a mix of fear and reverence commingled in their musk. 
Tikal chittered at the smell, his senses more acute than those of a man. Mama 
Freda waited until their large companion disappeared into the far crack; then, 
directing Tikal with her own desires, she studied the others.
She suspected they only understood a fraction of what had transpired, while she 
understood each word. The guttural tongue of these people was not unknown to 
her—a knowledge she kept to herself. Their language was a mix of gesture, 
posture, and grunts, requiring both a keen eye and ear. Tikal had both.
“Freda, would you like to rest?” Jerrick asked, offering to guide her to a stone 
seat by the pile of logs and tinder. The d’warf Magnam began to light a fire. 
Jaston helped, shaving curls of wood from a branch to catch the flint’s spark.
Mama Freda patted the elv’in captain’s hand. “I’m fine, Jerrick. Go see if you 
can dig out some bread and hard cheese. The others must be hungry.” He did not 
budge. His blue eyes sparked with concern for her. “Freda… ?”
“I’m fine,” she said more strongly.
She recognized the worry in his hard gaze and sighed. She wished she had never 
confided in Jerrick about the weakness in her heart. But the pain that had woken 
her a few nights back had been impossible to hide. She had been forced to admit 
her secret. Even her herbs could no longer keep the pain at bay, but at least 
they continued to ease her breathing.
After learning of her ailment, Jerrick had been furious with her for undertaking 
this journey. But deep inside, Mama Freda knew she had no choice. For countless 
winters, she had been alone—blind, disfigured, a foreigner among strangers. Only 
now, so late in her life, had she found someone to share her heart, as Tikal 
shared her senses. Bonded, one knowing the other. She would not spend her 
remaining time away from him. She gave his hand a squeeze of reassurance. “Go 
help the others.” He nodded and released her. She eyed him as he departed: his 
white hair tied back, his figure lean and still strong for his age. A smile 
traced her lips as she turned away. He doted on her like a mother wolf with a 
lame cub. And for some reason, after so many years as a healer, it felt good to 
have someone look after her.
She stepped toward the layered stones that marked off Tol’chuk’s compound. 
Fardale guarded the entrance, but Freda aimed farther back, toward a cluster of 
og’res. She leaned heavily on her cane, appearing feeble, no threat to the 
og’res beyond the fence line.
The large og’re named Hun’shwa stood with a clutch of others, all muscled and 
scarred. Hun’shwa glanced her way, but dismissed her—not only a female, but a 
human, and an old, eyeless one at that.
She listened to their talk.
“Do you balk?” one of the others grunted to Hun’shwa. This fellow was the most 
gnarled og’re she had ever seen, like the twisted stump of a tree. He wore a bit 
of wolfskin over one shoulder in a half cloak.
“Don’t press me, Cray’nock,” Hun’shwa growled.
“You gave your word to the Ku’ukla clan.” The stranger nodded to the flame-lit 
crack. “That half-breed demon killed my brother.” He lifted the edge of his 
wolfskin to bare the burned scar on his forearm.
Mama Freda saw that the design didn’t match the clan markings here.
“I know what I swore to the Ku’ukla,” Hun’shwa grumbled angrily.
Cray’nock spat on the stone floor. “Do not be fooled by his magick. He tricks 
you, weakens your heart with the shade of your son.”
Hun’shwa turned to glare at the twisted og’re. “Do not mention my son again.”
Cray’nock curled his nose, ignoring the threat. “And what of the Triad? Do you 
truly believe evil was not involved with their deaths?”
Hun’shwa lowered his voice. “Their ghosts—”
The other og’re spat again. “Demon trickery. My brother’s hunting mates spoke of 
how he called demons from the sky. What then is a bit of smoke and whispers? 
More trickery, I say.”
Hun’shwa’s stony face tightened with doubt.
Cray’nock pressed on. “He killed your son. He murdered Fen’shwa.”
Hun’shwa spun with a thunderous growl, but the other og’re was already 
disappearing among his wolfskin-draped brothers.
“Do not speak my son’s name!” Hun’shwa rumbled. “I will not warn you again. Do 
not dare disturb his spirit!”
Cray’nock spoke from among his brethren. “You promised to bring the new Ku’ukla 
leader the head of that half-breed cur! I ask you again—do you balk ?”
Hun’shwa growled. “I will think upon my words.”
Cray’nock sneered. “Think quickly, Hun’shwa—or war will come to your caves. The 
mountains will run red with your clan’s blood. This I swear!” He turned away 
with the others, but not before one final jibe: “And the Ku’ukla clan won’t 
balk!”
As the others left, Hun’shwa was left with a trio of his own warriors. “What 
will you do?” one of them asked.
Hun’shwa glanced to the crack in the back wall and sighed. “I will make my 
decision by the time of the Assembly. If the Triad spoke truly, Tol’chuk must be 
protected.”
“And if it was a trick ?”
Hun’shwa glowered. “Then I will slay Tol’chuk on the steps of the Dragon.” He 
swung away, waving toward the departing clutch of clansmen. “Watch them.”
Mama Freda leaned on her cane, considering the last words of the og’re. It was a 
wise command. She eyed the departing members of the Ku’ukla clan. They did 
indeed bear watching. Something more was afoot than was plainly evident. 
Otherwise, why doubt what was witnessed here? The spiritual energies all but 
touched one’s heart—og’re or not.
Deep down, Hun’shwa knew the truth. Though he hesitated in betraying his prior 
promise, she sensed he believed all that had transpired here. But as leader of 
this tribe, he also had to consider the threat of the Ku’ukla clan.
She studied the hostile group. They, too, had witnessed the miracle of the 
Triad’s passing and a new spiritual leader being chosen, but they denied the 
truth. Why? Something was hidden here… something that needed the attention of a 
closer eye.
She reached to her shoulder and touched Tikal. “Go, follow,” she whispered, 
sending her desire directly into her sense-bonded companion. “Do not be seen.”
Tikal shivered, frightened to leave her side. His worries passed to her through 
their bonds. She stroked the tamrink’s fiery mane. “Follow them… but stay hidden 
and quiet.”
“Big goat sharp sharp.” His eyes grew huge.
“Yes, be careful.” She touched Tikal’s lips with a finger. “And quiet.”
Tikal trembled for a moment more, his eyes on the departing og’res. Then his 
tail tightened around her neck, embracing. With this short farewell, Tikal 
bounded from her shoulder and over the fence. He vanished in an instant into the 
shadows. Mama Freda remained with him, seeing through his eyes as he raced away, 
staying low, sticking to the darkest corners.
She startled as something touched her.
“The fire’s ready,” Jerrick said at her shoulder. “Come join us by the warmth.”
Mama Freda did not resist this time. She leaned into her lover, letting him 
guide her. She feigned exhaustion, not blindness. While they walked toward a 
fire she could not see, her vision ran in shadows toward the cavern entrance. 
She remained silent about Tikal’s mission. The cavern had many ears, and the 
acoustics were tricky. She would see what she could discover first.
Once near enough, she felt the glow of the fire and used her cane to guide her 
to a stone seat. Jerrick settled beside her. No one commented on the missing 
tamnnk. It wasn’t unusual for Tikal to be off her shoulder and scrounging in 
dark corners.
She faced the fire, pretending to be basking in its warmth, while deep inside 
she chased a clutch of og’res out into the drizzling gloom, her eyes sharp, her 
ears keen to any threat, her nose tasting the musk of those she pursued. Soon 
Tikal edged close enough for her to hear their grumbled words.
“All is ready?” Cray’nock was asking.
“The traps are set,” assured the other.
“Good.” Cray’nock glanced back over a shoulder. Tikal dove behind a 
scrabbleberry bush. The og’re sniffed at the air, eyeing the entrance to Toktala 
home cave. “By nightfall, the entire Fang will be ours.”
Tol’chuk waited for the last of the og’res to leave the Chamber of the Spirits. 
The laborers draped the last, limp form beside the other two, positioning cold 
palms down over the eyes of the dead. This was traditionally done to keep the 
spirits from attempting to reenter the bodies, but Tol’chuk knew such an act was 
unnecessary here. The Triad had been only too glad to shed the burden of flesh.
With their duty done, the bearers of the dead departed, leaving Tol’chuk alone 
with the corpses. He stared around the room. He had only been in here twice: 
during his naming ceremony and again when he had been a bearer of the dead, 
carrying Fen’shwa’s limp body.
Tol’chuk turned in a slow circle. The sacred cavern was oval in shape with a 
bowled floor, like a bubble in the granite. A dozen torches lit the walls, 
hissing and flickering with blue flames. Shadows danced along the walls like the 
ghosts of the departed.
Tol’chuk ignored the display and faced the dark tunnel in the far wall. “The 
path of the dead,” he whispered. It led to the warren of rooms in which the 
Triad had lived for countless ages. Tol’chuk’s grandfather’s grandfather had 
bowed to the trio. Now they were gone. The torch had been passed.
Sighing, Tol’chuk crossed the chamber and unhooked one of the blue-flaming 
brands, accepting what he must do next: to follow the path of the dead to its 
end, where his journey first began. Once again he must face the Spirit Gate, the 
crystal heart of the mountain.
Biting back the fear in his heart, Tol’chuk passed under the arch of the tunnel 
and into the dark gloom beyond. He attempted to keep his mind empty, his worries 
at bay. He simply trudged onward, winding down into the silent nether regions of 
the og’re lands.
He was no stranger here, so he was not dismayed when the roof of the passage 
lowered, forcing him to duck and bow. The air grew bitter with the scent of rock 
salt and crusted mold. He pressed onward.
Ahead the tunnel branched to the right and left. Which way? Instinctively he 
knew the answer. Reaching with his free hand, he removed the chunk of 
heartstone. He held it forward as he neared a pair of corridors and raised the 
jewel to both paths. It flared brighter when facing the left.
He went that way, trusting the stone to guide him to the Spirit Gate.
After an interminable time and a maze of intersecting passages, Tol’chuk noticed 
a new glow ahead: not the rose of heartstone, but green like luminescent pond 
scum.
Moving resolutely, Tol’chuk discovered the source. The tunnels here were covered 
with eyeless, thumb-long glowworms: floor, walls, and ceiling. They squirmed 
around and over each other, leaving shiny trails on the bare rock.
Tol’chuk grimaced. He had forgotten about these denizens of the deep cave. He 
continued onward, crushing them under his bare feet. He remembered Magnam’s 
description of the creatures, how they always appeared whenever veins or 
deposits of heartstone were mined. Why they migrated here was not known.
Holding the Heart aloft, Tol’chuk continued down the passage. Soon the worms 
were so plentiful that the torch was no longer necessary. He abandoned the brand 
at a crossroad and continued with just the stone.
Tol’chuk forged on, his skin shining with sweat and worm slime. Just as he was 
sure he was lost in this warren of tunnels, the passage suddenly lifted from 
around his shoulders, opening into a gigantic vault.
Tol’chuk stopped at the entrance, straightening, staring across the space. He 
held the crystal Heart before him. As if the air were fresher here, the flame in 
the heartstone fanned brighter, and a brilliance burst out, illuminating every 
corner of the vaulted room.
Its radiance splashed up against the chamber’s far wall and revealed what lay 
hidden there: an arch of pure heartstone. Its two pillars glinted in the 
wormlight, each jeweled facet on fire.
Tol’chuk shrank before its majesty, but he moved forward, still holding his 
stone aloft, shielding his eyes with the other hand.
Bathed in the light, Tol’chuk felt the now-familiar sense of peace and unity 
with all of life. He stood basking in the radiance for an unknown time.
“Tol’chuk…”
He startled in the empty room.
I i
“Tol’chuk, listen to us.”
Pulling his thoughts back to the world of worm and rock, he realized the words 
arose from the heartstone in his clawed grip. Again a dark mist rose from the 
stone and spread high, drifting toward the Spirit Gate. The cloud settled to a 
stop, swirling and churning before the massive arch.
“We dare not cross over yet,” the shades of the Triad whispered. Tol’chuk heard 
the longing in their words. “There is something we must show you first.”
The mist separated again into three parts. Each sailed to the stone floor and 
resumed the shape of a bent-backed og’re. “Approach the Spirit
Gate.“
Tol’chuk hesitated. He had traveled through the arch once and was loath to do so 
again.
The closest shadow turned his way. The greenish glow of eyes stared back at him; 
Tol’chuk recognized the shine of the worms. Hadn’t Mag-nam mentioned such a 
phenomenon? He remembered the d’warf’s words: If you hang around the worms long 
enough, their glow creeps into your own eyes. Some say it lets you see not only 
this world but into the next… into
the future.
Staring at those eyes now, Tol’chuk did not doubt it.
“Come,” the figure whispered. For the first time, it sounded as if the words 
arose from this one individual rather than all three. “It is time you learned 
the truth.”
The other spirits drifted toward the arch, one toward each pillar. As they 
reached the gate’s supports, each ghost disappeared into the stone, vanishing as 
they had done into the Heart earlier.
Tol’chuk remained alone with the last member of the Triad.
Across the room, a deep droning arose from the arch. As it grew louder, words 
could be heard—ancient words chanted in a tongue Tol’chuk did not recognize. The 
intonation traveled up the pillars, and a new sound reverberated outward, as if 
the original prayer was being echoed by something more ancient than any 
language. The whole cavern rang with the sound. Tol’chuk’s bones seemed to 
vibrate in tune.
The lone spirit spoke at his shoulder. “It is the Voice of the Fang.”
Tol’chuk glanced to the speaker. The misty figure had grown more substantial, 
seeming to draw strength from the noise itself.
“The Land speaks through the mountain.” The spirit pointed again to the arch.
As the droning grew in volume, the wall of granite framed by the heartstone arch 
began to shimmer in harmony with the Voice. What had once appeared to be a cliff 
of solid granite now seemed no more than a reflection in a pond that rippled 
with the droning call.
Even the air grew clearer in the chamber, as if an unfelt wind blew outward from 
the gate. Tol’chuk breathed deeply, filling his lungs. He felt energy spreading 
throughout his being. As it reached the hand holding the Heart of the Og’res, 
the stone flared brighter, vibrating in harmony with the Voice.
Tol’chuk’s arm rose of its own bidding, and he felt the now-familiar tug upon 
his chest. Tol’chuk stepped toward the Spirit Gate, unable to stop himself. A 
flush of panic iced through him. Was he again doomed to pass through the Gate 
and be transported elsewhere? He resisted, struggling to control his limbs.
“Do not fight it,” the spirit whispered, trailing behind him.
“What’s happening?” Tol’chuk squeaked out.
“The Fang calls you. You cannot stop it.”
The ghost was correct. Tol’chuk was drawn forward—not under the Gate and beyond 
like before, but toward one of the two pillars. And with each step, the stone 
flared brighter, growing into a blinding star in his hand.
Sightless from the glare, Tol’chuk barely registered when he’d stopped. His arm 
stretched overhead, drawing his spine straighten He felt the Heart touch the 
arch, clicking into place; with its touch, he was released from the spell and 
tumbled backward.
Tol’chuk rubbed his arm. He spotted the Heart resting in a faceted cubby, like a 
key in a lock. It fit so seamlessly that it would have been impossible to 
discern if not for the blinding light coming from it.
The ghost spoke. “The stone is the center of the Gate—its heart, as much as our 
own.”
The Voice of the Fang suddenly changed in pitch.
“Now watch!” the Triad ghost warned. “Watch as the Gate is made whole.”
The shine of the imbedded Heart flowed up into the arch, igniting the larger 
stone like fire set to oil. The blaze of brilliance swept up into the pillared 
column, traveling high over the arch, then diving back down the far leg.
As it hit the floor, the glow dimmed—but did not stop!
Tol’chuk gasped.
The star of brilliance could be seen diving down through the floor,
I
shining through the granite like moonlight through a dense fog. The glowing arc 
passed beneath the arch, then back up into the first pillar, completing an 
entire circle to rejoin the Heart again.
Tol’chuk gaped at the blazing arch above and the glow of its reflection in the 
granite below. The unbroken ring reminded him of the mountain people’s Citadel: 
an arch of granite whose reflection in Tor Amon formed a magickal circle. It was 
the same here.
“Unity,” the Triad ghost whispered in a mix of sorrow and joy: “It has been so 
long since the Heart was hale enough to ignite the Gate fully.”
“I don’t understand.”
The spirit pointed a hand overhead. “The arch you see in the cave is but half of 
the whole.” He shifted his arm toward the floor. “Below lies the other half 
circle, still buried, completing the Gate.”
“A ring of heartstone,” Tol’chuk mumbled. “Not just an arch.” The spirit nodded. 
“With the Heart returned, the way is now open.”
“The way to where?”
The ghost again turned those wormglowing eyes toward him. “To the center of all 
things, the core of the world.” The spirit waved an arm toward the Gate. “Behold 
what lies within the Land’s true heart!”
The mirage of rippling granite under the arch suddenly convulsed as if a large 
boulder had dropped into its center. From either pillar, two sweeping clouds of 
mist sailed forth—the other spirits returning. The pair joined their brother, 
and they all watched as the ring of heartstone blazed and the rock in the center 
rippled and churned. Granite lost form, becoming something else.
Tol’chuk feared what he would see, but he could not tear his eyes away. His 
breath grew still.
Slowly the churning slowed. The black granite cliff face disappeared. In its 
place was a sight that dropped Tol’chuk to his knees.
He stared out into a pit of endless darkness, traced with jagged lines of 
crimson fire. Flares traveled along these veins like fireflies, pulsing and 
racing. Some seemed to flicker from the ring of heartstone here and travel down 
those lines. But it wasn’t these veins that took the breath from Tol’chuk. Set 
in the heart of the inky darkness revolved a giant crystal of the purest silver 
blue, shining like the most perfect diamond in the night. Tol’chuk could not 
remove his gaze from its beauty. Though he had no reference by which to judge 
its size, he knew what he looked upon dwarfed the largest mountain. He was but a 
mote before its majesty.
“Behold the heart of the world,” the Triad intoned together. “The Land’s spirit 
given form. Behold the Spirit Stone.”
With their words, the shining crystal swelled toward them. Tol’chuk sensed a 
presence filling the space like pressure under the deepest waters. Unblinking, 
he stared, feeling complete and whole, even before an energy unfathomable in 
depth and scope.
And as he watched, he realized the traceries of crimson were in fact veins of 
heartstone. The webbed net of lines crisscrossed and forked, but all paths led 
down to the crystal at its center.
The Spirit Stone… the true heart of the world.
“She comes,” the Triad whispered around him, their voices full of reverence.
Tol’chuk sensed it too, a growing heaviness to the air, a pressure on the ears. 
Then a figure appeared, stepping forth from the Spirit Gate as if from the stone 
itself. Limned against the silvery shine, the newcomer was a dark shadow, a 
living flow of black oil. It was a woman, tall and stately, clothed in a mist of 
silver tresses that clouded around her, draping over ebony shoulders, obscuring 
her face, and seeming to wave and sweep as if she moved underwater. The strands 
roiled and flowed all the way back to the Spirit Stone, blending one to the 
other.
“Who… ? What… ?” Tol’chuk stammered.
Drawn to his voice, she stepped forward, turning to him. Her silver tresses 
washed from her face for a moment. Her features grew to perfect clarity, carved 
of stone.
Tol’chuk gasped. “Elena!”
Mama Freda continued to warm her cold bones by the fire. At her side, Jerrick 
spoke in whispers to Magnam and Jaston, but she listened, instead, with the keen 
ears of her pet tamrink, her attention on the pack of og’res from the Ku’ukla 
clan.
It was dizzying to sit so still before a warm fire while another part of her, 
sharp with senses, raced and sped. Her nose smelled both the sizzle of woodsmoke 
from the campfire and the goatlike odor of wet og’res.
Mama Freda wrapped her hands over the end of her cane, leaning her chin upon her 
fingers, while her heart pounded in her ears, fearful for her pet, fearful for 
them all. From the words of Cray’nock, the Ku’ukla clan planned treachery and 
bloodshed. She longed to tell the others, but blind as she was here, it was 
impossible to tell who might eavesdrop. Around her, she heard the scuff of 
og’res, their grunts, their barked orders. Some were close, keeping an eye on 
the strangers in their den. For now, she would remain silent until she 
discovered what trickery the Ku’ukla clan planned.
I
She focused on Tikal.
By now, the og’re pack had crossed the meadow and were well into a patch of 
rimwood forest nestled in the upper highlands. They were in their own territory, 
tracing their way back to their home cave and warrens. The group grumbled like 
low thunder, much of it boasting of the number of heads they would collect 
during the war to come. But as the rimwood forest of black pines and mountain 
alder grew denser around them, the party became quieter.
Through Tikal’s nose, Mama Freda could smell the edge of fear that now scented 
their musk. With each step, the scent grew thicker. Her fingers tightened on her 
cane.
Cray’nock stopped and waved for the others to remain where they were. No one 
grunted an objection. The gnarled og’re straightened his wolfskin cloak 
nervously, then edged away from the group.
Mama Freda silently urged Tikal to follow this lone og’re. The tam-rink slipped 
to the side of the path and circled around the main group. Tikal took to the 
branches then, scampered high, and ran along the tree-tops. Here in the dense 
forest, the canopy was an unbroken road. Her pet’s keen eyes never lost sight of 
Cray’nock as the og’re slinked deeper into the dark woods.
Overhead, lightning crackled. A spat of rain pelted down, drumming through the 
leaves and needles. Tikal slipped lower among the branches, both to avoid the 
worst of the rain and to keep a watch on the og’re as the woods grew denser.
Cray’nock slowed, his gaze darting around him. The sweaty scent of his fear 
thickened the air.
From a shadowy patch of the deep wood, a voice greeted him, sly and dripping 
with wickedness. “Have you the head of the one named Tol’chuk?” Mama Freda was 
surprised to hear the common tongue spoken here, not Og’re.
“No, my queen.” Cray’nock dropped to his knees, his voice trembling. “The slayer 
of my brother still lives. He again uses demon trickery, this time to sway the 
others’ hearts.”
“What of the pact with the Toktala clan? Their promise?”
Cray’nock bowed his head. “Hun’shwa, their leader, resists. But the Ku’ukla clan 
is prepared to attack upon your word. We gather near the north woods already.”
There followed a long empty silence. Cray’nock trembled among the wet leaves.
“No,” the voice suddenly whispered, “we will not attack them in their own caves. 
I have heard of the summons this night, a gathering at the place called the 
Dragon’s Skull.”
Cray’nock nodded. “Yes, my queen.”
“That is where we will draw them out. And I will not tolerate any more 
failures—not from your brother before you, not from you.”
“No, my queen.”
“I will make sure this time, Cray’nock. Come closer.”
The og’re climbed to his feet, shuddering, and moved forward, shambling in fear.
Mama Freda urged Tikal to follow. Who lurt^s in the woods here?
As both tamrink and og’re moved toward the deepest glade of the wood, Mama Freda 
made out what looked like snow shining among the branches ahead, as if a small 
snowstorm had struck this single section of forest. Fluffy mounds of white 
frosted dark limbs and lay in piles atop shadowy bushes. Even the forest floor 
was covered with drifts and banks of the snowy whiteness.
What strangeness is this?
Cray’nock crept to the edge of the odd glade, followed by Tikal in the treetops.
Now closer, peering down with the sharp eyes of the tamrink, Mama Freda saw the 
snow-covered forest was not unoccupied. Thousands of tiny red spiders raced over 
the white mounds and along thin strands.
Not snow, Mama Freda realized with growing horror, webbing. The entire glade was 
enshrouded in silky webs, piled thick and choking everything.
Cray’nock cowered before the giant spider’s nest.
From the center of the webbing, something dark stirred. A spiny leg, bloodred in 
color, pierced out from a dense curtain of netting and cut through the silky 
mass with ease. Then another appeared… and another…
What came next, dragged out by those legs, was a horror unlike any Mama Freda 
had ever imagined—a giant spider, as large as any og’re, as dark a red as to be 
almost black. Its eight legs skittered through the web. Its bulbous shiny 
abdomen arched up, dripping silk from the spinnarets on its underbelly as it 
pulled free of its central nest.
But that was not the worst.
Above the engorged abdomen, the torso of a woman stood out starkly. She was as 
pale as the other half of her was dark. Long blue-black hair hung across her 
bare breasts, where tiny red spiders raced. She brushed i
them gently away with her hands, but her attention remained fully on the og’re 
before her.
Cray’nock would not look up into her cold face. “Queen Vira’ni.”
Mama Freda jerked by the fire, dropping her cane.
Jerrick spoke at her side. “Freda, are you all right?”
She waved his question away, frozen in fear. She had heard the tale of the 
spider wit’ch from the others: an ill’guard enemy slain in the woods below the 
highlands and buried there. But the ill’guard dead did not always stay dead. As 
with Rockingham before her, the spider wit’ch had obviously been resurrected and 
given a new form.
“You will take me to the Dragon’s Skull,” she whispered, oily and venomous. She 
pointed to the limbs of the trees around her. “Call your clansmen. We will move 
my egg sacs there, too.”
Cray’nock stared up. Tikal—and Mama Freda—followed his gaze. From the limbs of 
the trees, scores of heavy silk pods hung, the size of ripe pumpkins. Inside the 
silky cocoons, dark things churned and vibrated, awaiting release.
The og’re trembled at the sight, horror keeping him frozen. “My children have 
tasted the blood of this Tol’chuk,” Vira’ni continued. “This time we will feast 
on his body—on the bodies of all who aid him.”
“Yes, my queen.” Cray’nock climbed to his feet. The spider queen’s face lifted 
as he rose, her eyes piercing. Her gaze swept the silk-shrouded canopy and fixed 
upon Mama Freda’s own.
“We are spied upon!” Vir’ani hissed, pointing in her direction. “Tikal! Run!” 
Mama Freda shouted aloud in her panic. “What’s wrong?” Jerrick asked, clutching 
at her shoulder. Mama Freda didn’t have time to answer. She raced with her 
tamrink through the trees, struggling to send energy out to him. Then a sharp 
pain flared in her chest. She gasped.
Her little friend shared her pain. Tikal missed a jump and tumbled wildly. He 
struck a branch, and a tiny leg snapped. He hit the ground hard, knocking the 
breath from his chest.
Mama Freda could not breathe herself, but she fought to give the tamrink what 
strength she could.
Tikal scrambled to his one good leg. In his fright and pain, he chittered, 
“Tikal, good puppy, run, run.”
The fiery agony in Mama Freda’s chest burst out into her legs and arms. She 
barely felt Jerrick cradle her as she fell. Her mind and heart— weak as it 
was—went out to Tikal. Run, my little boy, run.
“Run, run,” he echoed aloud in a forest too far away.
The tamrink raced with his injured leg curled against his belly, fleeing on his 
hands, leaping with his good leg, tail flagging.
Run and hide… get away, my little love. By now the pain choked her breathing to 
a standstill. She could not even gasp.
Tikal fled, flying through the woods—then something snagged his leg, pulling him 
up short, dropping him to the dirt.
As he struggled to free himself, rolling and jerking, Mama Freda saw what had 
captured him: a loop of webbing wrapped around his leg. It now drew him back, 
dragging his panicked body toward the source of the web, the spider queen. 
Vira’ni lurked down the trail, hunched, legs splayed, a grin of pure venom on 
her lips.
From under her legs, a wave of tiny red spiders flowed, aiming for little Tikal. 
Her pet struggled and fought, trying to bite through the constraining web, 
chewing with his needle teeth.
Suddenly he broke free, rolling back from the sudden release. He turned and 
bounded away, leaping toward a low-hanging branch. With a flare of relief, Mama 
Freda felt his fingers latch on.
But the branch was not empty.
Small spiders danced across the bark, across Tikal’s fingers, down his thin arm. 
When they bit, the pain struck Mama Freda, worse than the pain of her own 
failing heart. The little tamrink fell again, landing amid the wave of spiders.
Mama Freda screamed as he was overrun. “Tikal!”
“Mama, Mama…”
Then she felt the beat of his little brave heart clench and stop… as did her 
own.
Deep in a cave, her body arched. Agony lanced through bones and heart.
“What’s wrong with her?” Magnam cried out.
“She’s dying!” Jerrick said. “Her heart!”
Mama Freda felt darkness close around her, a darkness deeper than any blindness. 
She struggled to draw one more breath from lungs leaden with approaching death. 
She gasped out one final warning to her friends, her lover.
“Beware… Vira’ni!”
Then the cool balm of darkness erased her pain. As she drifted away from the 
touch of her lover, feeling his lips press against hers one last time, somewhere 
in the distant darkness, she heard a tiny piping cry, lost and scared. Mama, 
Mama… Hush, little one, I’m coming.
Stunned, Tol’chuk stared as the dark apparition flowed out of the Spirit Gate. 
“Elena?” he repeated.
The figure focused on him, her dark eyes shining like polished obsidian. Silver 
tresses continued to billow across her features, moving to unseen currents. 
Energy crackled along the curls and flowing strands, seeming to sweep out from 
the Spirit Stone to scintillate over the black skin of the apparition. As she 
moved from the heartstone arch, the features of her face grew in detail, as if 
she were arising from the depths of some dark sea.
Tol’chuk recognized his mistake. This figure, while similar in features, was not 
Elena. The ghostly woman here was much older. Her face was unlined, but the 
weight of ages marked her eyes and lips, and the silver of her hair was not all 
magick. Here stood a woman older than centuries.
“Wh-who are you?” he forced out.
The Triad answered his question, their voices full of awe: “The Lady of the 
Stone. Its guardian and keeper.”
The apparition lifted a single dark arm, sweeping back a mist of silver strands. 
“No,” she said, her black lips parting. “No longer.” Her words were faint. They 
also seemed strangely out of sync with the movement of her lips. “I cannot hold 
back the darkness that comes. My time is past.” Her eyes glinted at Tol’chuk. 
“New guardians are needed.”
As Tol’chuk drew back, the Triad stirred in confusion, their figures blurring. 
“But the Lady of the Stone has been the Gate’s eternal guardian.”
“No,” she repeated again with a shake of her head. “Not eternal… just ancient… I 
joined my spirit to the Stone in a time lost to myth and legend.”
The Triad murmured, their confusion dissolving their shapes into misty forms. 
“We don’t understand.”
“I once went by another name.” Her words grew faint. “Your great, great 
ancestors called me not the Lady of the Stone, but a title more cursed in its 
time: Tula ne la Ra Chayn.”
ToPchuk frowned at her last words, for the name was spoken in ancient Og’re. But 
the elders understood, for a wail screeched from the misty figures. “It cannot 
be!” They fled back from the Gate in horror and shock, shredding apart.
“What’s wrong?” Tol’chuk asked, starting up to his feet.
One of the shades sailed past overhead, crying out. “Tula ne la Ra Chayn!”
“The blasted…” another moaned.
“The cursed one!” the third keened.
In their panic, the group had split, no longer united.
Tol’chuk backed a step. “Who?”
The first answered, “She is Tu’la ne la Ra Chayn… the Wit’ch of the Spirit 
Stone!”
Tol’chuk pinched his brows together in confusion. The Triad settled behind him 
as if for protection.
Before them, the dark woman continued to drift within a sea of silvery strands, 
ignoring their outburst. She seemed to grow blacker, her misty hair sparking 
more richly. The anger in her eyes was clear, as was an impossible sadness.
The Triad’s words sunk into Tol’chuk. “The Wit’ch of the Spirit Stone,” he 
mumbled, staring at the apparition, frowning. Then realization struck him blind 
as he again recognized the similarities to Elena. Another wit’ch… He stumbled 
back, choking for a moment, then gasped out the name by which he knew her: “The 
Wit’ch of Spirit and Stone!”
Her eyes remained fixed on Tol’chuk. “The march of time blurs so many meanings 
and names,” she said coldly. “It is strange to have all of your life’s successes 
and defeats boiled down to such a simple phrase, then to have even that 
misremembered.” She sighed. “But you know my true name, don’t you, og’re?”
He did, seeing in her tireless expression a bit of Elena even here. “Sisa’kofa,” 
he said aloud.
She nodded. “And I know you. The last descendant of Ly’chuk of the Toktala 
clan.”
Tol’chuk frowned in confusion.
“The Oathbreaker,” she explained.
Tol’chuk blinked. hy’chukj That was his ancestor’s name, the Oath-breaker’s true 
name. He found his tongue. “I don’t understand. How could you be here? Why are 
you here?”
She waved a ghostly arm. “To answer your first question, I’m not really here. My 
true spirit passed beyond the Spirit Gate ages ago. This form is but an echo, a 
bit of magick left behind, tied to the energy of the Spirit Stone. As to why? 
That is a story meant for another’s ears, not yours. I left my echo in the Gate, 
knowing one day the wit’ch who would come after me would be in need of 
guidance.”
“Elena,” Tol’chuk said.
The dark figure nodded. “For untold centuries, I’ve been guardian of the Spirit 
Stone. From this post, I’ve guided your people as best I could, but even I could 
not stop your ancestor’s betrayal.”
“The Oathbreaker…”
“Ly’chuk took the vow of spiritual guardianship and came as a supplicant to this 
very Gate. He was strong in spirit and even stronger in elemental gifts.”
Tol’chuk jerked with surprise. “The Oathbreaker was an elemental?”
“His gift was the ability to sculpt another person’s natural magicks—to take raw 
talent and refine it.”
Her words rang with truth. Tol’chuk remembered all the ill’guard encountered 
during their long sojourn. They were examples of this very handiwork, elementals 
whose gifts were warped to serve the Oathbreaker’s need or amusement. “What 
happened?”
“That even I don’t know. One day your ancestor opened the Gate to the Spirit 
Stone. I felt the magick and came to see Ly’chuk kneeling, crying in pain, his 
arms raised. As I approached, I felt something tear in the fabric of the world. 
After that, the Gate slammed shut and remained closed for the next six 
centuries.” She faced the shades of the Triad, “What happened in this chamber 
that day I do not know.”
The og’re spirits shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “We know no more than 
you,” they whispered in unison again. “The Oathbreaker took his vows. But we 
also sensed the wrongness, that rip in the fabric, that you speak of. We rushed 
here, but we only found the Heart, resting on the floor. When we touched the 
stone, we knew immediately it was cursed. Tainted, the Heart would no longer 
fully awaken the Spirit Gate. We were cut off. And in the heartstone, the Bane 
grew, feeding on our spirits. One of us dreamed that the curse could only be 
lifted by the last seed of Ly’chuk, the Oathbreaker.”
“So we waited…” the first elder said, breaking from the others.
“And waited…” the second said.
“And waited…” the third echoed.
“Until I came,” Tol’chuk finished, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
A silence settled in the room. So many ages pressed down upon them.
At last, the shadow of Sisa’kofa spoke. “It would seem your burden is not over, 
og’re.”
Tol’chuk glanced up. “What do you mean?”
She glanced to the Spirit Gate, her silver hair billowing. “The Land tainted 
your heartstone with the Bane for a reason: to lock the path to the Spirit 
Stone. Since that time, I have sensed corruption trying to dig through, have 
felt the Land’s flow of energies being twisted. Something out there hunts for 
the heart of this world.”
“My ancestor,” Tol’chuk whispered. “The Oathbreaker.”
The shade sighed. “And he grows stronger. Soon he’ll break through; my echo of 
power is no match. But the Spirit Gate opens again.” The shade of the wit’ch 
focused on Tol’chuk. “New champions have arisen, chosen to protect the purity of 
the world’s heart: both you and the new wit’ch.”
“Elena.”
A nod. “Before my true spirit passed beyond the Gate, I dreamt of her. I saw the 
dark time ahead. She stood before this same Gate, the blood of friends flowing 
across the floor…” The shade of the wit’ch sighed. “I bear a warning meant only 
for her. It is the reason I am here, a call from the distant past to the 
present.”
“You won’t tell us this warning?” Tol’chuk asked, bone-tired of magicks and 
secrets.
“I cannot. I am an echo of desire and purpose. I have no other path. The young 
wit’ch must be brought here, and the Spirit Gate must be protected until that 
time.” She stared hard at Tol’chuk. “You must be this guardian.”
The Triad whispered again, their eyes aglow with prescient wormlight. “We saw 
this also. It was why we summoned an assembly at Dragon’s Skull.” All eyes 
focused on Tol’chuk. “You must unite the clans. The Gate must be protected!”
Somewhere far away, a howl echoed, traveling down from above.
“Listen,” Sisa’kofa said. “Already the darkness closes around us.”
Tol’chuk cocked his head, recognizing the cry. Fardale.
He began to turn, but the Triad drifted up, wormlit eyes seeking his. “A spirit 
has been released,” they whispered. “One of your companions.”
Tol’chuk bolted to his feet. “Who?”
“The old woman,” the og’re ghosts intoned, keening.
Mama Freda! Tol’chuk swung away, meaning to hurry to his friends’ sides.
“Wait!” Sisa’kofa called to him. “Take the Heart! Close the Gate! Above all 
else, the path to the Spirit Stone must be protected.”
Tol’chuk hesitated, then ran to the arch. His clawed fingers grabbed hold of the 
Heart in its keyhole.
At his side, the spirit of the wit’ch drifted back through the Gate, her
“What happened?” His eyes were large, staring down at Mama Freda.
As Magnam explained, Jaston saw the clan leader, Hun’shwa, staring over at their 
group, as if weighing them. A smaller og’re grumbled at his shoulder, but the 
Hun’shwa growled him away.
“Vira’ni!” Tol’chuk boomed, drawing Jaston’s attention around.
Fardale nodded. “Mama Freda died with that name on her lips—a warning. I spied 
her beast leave the cave near the time you left with your dead elders.”
All faces turned to the shape-shifter.
His expression remained stoic. “The healer must have sent him after the og’res 
wearing the wolfskin cloaks.” He all but growled this last bit.
Tol’chuk responded in kind. “Wolfskin!”
Fardale nodded.
Tol’chuk glanced to the eye of the cave. “That could only mean—”
“The Ku’ukla clan,” a stern voice said behind them all.
As a group, they all turned. Hun’shwa stood there, head half bowed. “You killed 
Drag’nock, their leader,” he said. “They came with the morning sun and demanded 
the head of Tol’chuk or their clan would declare war.” The eyes of the og’re 
glanced to the floor. “I gave my word that it would be done.”
Magnam pulled his ax free. “I’d like to see you try!”
Tol’chuk lifted an arm to calm the d’warf. “And now, Hun’shwa?”
The big og’re lifted his eyes. “There be something wrong with the Ku’ukla. After 
my own fury for my son’s death calmed, I could smell it on their skin. They lie 
as easily as a stream flows.” He turned to the cave’s entrance. “Your head or 
not, war will come. The Ku’ukla crave to rule the six clans. The death of 
Drag’nock will rally them. But…” His eyes narrowed.
“But what?” Tol’chuk asked.
Hun’shwa turned to Tol’chuk. “Something else be wrong. Cray’nock be the one who 
came… the last brother of Drag’nock… saying their new leader demanded your 
head.”
“His brother?” Tol’chuk asked, his face hardening with suspicion.
“What’s the significance?” Jaston asked.
“Cray’nock should be leader after the death of his brother,” Tol’chuk explained. 
“It be our way.”
Hun’shwa nodded. “A new leader has arisen. So why didn’t he come with his clan’s 
demands? A strange scent clings to the Ku’ukla clan.”
“And there be no nose more keen than yours,” Tol’chuk said, clearly accepting 
this statement.
Jaston spoke up. “The Ku’ukla threat… and a warning from Mama Freda about the 
spider wit’ch.”
“Darkness closes around us,” Tol’chuk whispered, as if repeating someone else’s 
words.
“What do we do?” Magnam asked, still holding his ax.
After a long moment, Tol’chuk turned to them. “Our only hope be to rally the 
clans this night. United, the og’re clans be a force few dare to threaten.” He 
turned to Hun’shwa. “Do I have the support of the Toktala?”
Hun’shwa stared at Tol’chuk, then slowly nodded. “We stand beside you.”
“Then prepare the clan. We march for the Dragon’s Skull with the setting sun.”
Hun’shwa half bowed, then departed.
“What of us?” Magnam asked.
Tol’chuk stared at them, a strange light in his eyes. “You be also my family, my 
hearth. That makes you og’re. And when I speak of uniting the og’re clans, I 
mean all og’res.”
Jerrick still knelt by the body of the healer. “And Freda? What are we to do 
with her?”
Tol’chuk’s voice grew hard. “She gave her life to bring us warning. She will be 
honored… and revenged. This I swear on our new family.” Tol’chuk held out a claw 
toward them all.
Magnam was the first to step up, placing his hand atop Tol’chuk’s. Fardale came 
next, stoic, expressionless, but his eyes glowed stronger as he rested his hand 
upon the others‘.
Jaston felt a stirring in the air, something larger than them all. He moved 
forward, adding his hand.
Slowly, Jerrick rose to his feet. The elv’in captain stepped to their side. He 
reached an arm, and with a last glance to his lover, he joined his palm to 
theirs. Something seemed to spark out at that moment, something that had nothing 
to do with elv’in wind magick.
Tol’chuk whispered in a low voice. “United.”
Thunder boomed in the distance, punctuating his single word.
“A storm is coming,” Magnam muttered.
No one disagreed.
Cassa Dar stood atop the tower of Castle Drakk. She stared across the Drowned 
Lands toward the setting sun. Beyond the tower parapets, a wispy sea of swamp 
mist spread to the horizon. Only the top levels of Castle Drakk rode above the 
endless expanse, a lone ship in a dead calm.
Distantly, the calls of loons and the mating cronks of the deadly kroc’an echoed 
up from the swamplands below, accompanied by the sweet smell of moss and the 
heavy odor of decay.
Cassa Dar breathed it all in, drawing strength from her living lands as she 
readied herself for the spell to come.
A dark shape loomed in the distance—the Southern Fang.
She frowned at the mountain. It was the source of her land’s elemental power, 
but its magick had also snatched the man she loved into danger. Her gaze flicked 
northward. Every fiber of her body rang with tension.
“Jaston…” She sent her heart out toward him, tying a bit of her magick to her 
love. She held that moment, maintaining the connection for as long as possible.
Satisfied, she swung to the small swamp child standing behind her. He clutched a 
bulging burlap sack in his arms, hugging it to his chest. The sack was soaking 
wet, bulging, dribbling swamp water on the stones of the tower.
“Dump the bag here,” she directed the lad.
Biting his lip with concentration, the boy undid the rope tie and dumped the 
contents of his sack. Slops of wet swampweed splashed to the stones. The odor of 
silty vegetation cloyed up. Small crabs skittered from the pile.
J
Cassa Dar ignored the tiny scuttling creatures. With the certainty of her 
elemental magick, she plunged her arm up to the elbow into the sodden mound; her 
fingers closed around her true quarry.
From the pile, she dragged out the baby king adder. The snake, though just 
hatched, was as long as the swamp child was tall. Its length, banded in reds and 
blacks, writhed and curled around her forearm. Its jaws stretched wide, 
unfolding fangs dripping with oily poison. It hissed sibi-lantly at her. At this 
age, its venom was at its most potent, a necessary survival trait in the wilds 
of the deadly swamp.
“Quiet, little one,” she whispered. “There will be time for that later.”
With her other hand, she grabbed the adder’s tail and unwrapped its length, then 
drew its body taut, measuring it against the boy’s height.
The lad reached for it. “Pretty.”
She pulled it from his fingers. “No, child, it’s not for you.”
Shifting back to the swampweed mound, she planted the snake’s tail into the pile 
and stretched its muscular length straight up. It continued to hiss and bare its 
venomous fangs.
“Hush, don’t waste what you’ll need later.”
Cassa Dar reached out with the magick stored in her own body. After sending the 
warning crow to A’loa Glen, she had spent the day steeling herself for this 
single spell. Taking a deep breath, she emptied her power into the weed and 
moss, the most basic plants of her magick-drenched lands. Linked, she cast a 
spell more complex than her usual.
Weeds came alive, crawling up the trapped snake’s body like vines up a trellis. 
Mosses followed, winding and filling in spaces. Cassa Dar concentrated on the 
form held in her mind, joining her poisonous magick to the venom of the adder. 
Once the climbing swampweed and mosses grew over the snake’s entire length, she 
freed her hands.
The figure trembled on the stone, roughly approximate to the boy standing 
nearby. The lad stared at her creation, eyes wide. He had just watched a mirror 
of his own birth, except for one critical difference: the boy was only weed.
Cassa Dar maintained contact with the poisonous asp at the heart of her new 
golem. She knit and wound one to the other until the two became one.
The spell was not without cost to her. Her legs trembled, and her heart pounded 
in her ears. Cold sweat covered her from head to toe. She finished her spell 
with a trembling wave of her hand. Rough lines flowed smooth, and a glamor swept 
over all.
i
Upon the stones stood a girl with flowing black hair and pale limbs. Unlike 
Cassa’s boys, she was impossibly slender and lithe, similar to the snake that 
lurked in her core.
“Pretty,” the swamp boy repeated, reaching again.
Cassa Dar knocked away his hand. One final spell was needed. She kept her 
concentration on the girl. “Wake,” she whispered.
Like a butterfly opening its wings for the first time, the child’s eyelids 
fluttered open. Dark eyes stared back from a face as perfect as an ivory doll’s. 
“Mama?” she whispered in a daze.
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s time to wake up.”
The child stared around her. “Is it time to go?”
Cassa Dar smiled. Her desire had been wed into the creation. “Yes, you mustn’t 
be late.”
Cassa Dar felt for the connections between her and the girl. They were as clear 
as crystal—they had better be when the two were this close. “Go now,” she said, 
leaning back.
The girl stared toward the setting sun, then shifted slightly northward.
“You know the way.”
The child nodded and strode toward the stone parapets. Her first steps were 
faltering but grew quickly stronger. She climbed atop the parapets without any 
fear of the fall.
But then again, she had no need for fear.
From behind her shoulders, wings of weed, glamor, and magick unfolded, spreading 
wide into the sunlight.
“Go, my sweet,” Cassa Dar urged.
The child leaped from the tower. Like her first wobbly steps, her first flight 
was tumbled and awkward. But in a few beats, she was off and sailing.
Cassa Dar crossed to the tower’s edge, watching, leaning on the warm stones. She 
saw both through her own eyes and her creation. With the bit of poison coiled in 
her heart, the child carried a bit of the swamp’s potency—and as such, a piece 
of Cassa Dar.
“I pray it is enough,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and willed herself to 
enter the child fully, to touch the venomous energy at the golem’s core. Linked 
still to the flow of elemental power from the Southern Fang, Cassa Dar 
manipulated the magick and opened a gate. Through the eyes of the flying swamp 
child, a black hole appeared in the expanse of swamp mist.
She dove her child down toward that magickal portal. The girl swept through the 
gate and out the far side.
A moment of disorientation coursed through her. Cassa Dar tumbled
[
to the stones of the tower as the swamp child cartwheeled, plummeting downward.
“No!” she gasped, struggling for control. Her connection to her creation was now 
much fainter. The great distance between them made the child no more than a 
flickering beacon across a vast, dark lake. It took all her concentration to 
maintain the contact.
The boy on the tower stepped near her, knowing her need as always. She reached 
toward him. His hand touched hers. She sucked the magick from his being and 
ignored the tumble of damp weed and moss that fell at her feet. It was all that 
was left of the boy, but his bit of power helped focus her.
Far away, the fluttering girl fought her wings open and caught the storm winds 
ripping up the mountain slopes. She sailed high, spreading Cassa Dar’s vision 
wide. It was much darker here. To the west, a monstrous thunderstorm loomed, 
with black clouds stacked all the way up the sky. Lightning lanced sharply, 
while thunder boomed and echoed off the granite cliffs.
Cassa Dar willed the child lower, away from the worst of the storm’s winds. 
Below, a stream ran through a forest of black pine and mountain alders. She knew 
that stream—she had watched Jaston fight an og’re by that streambed.
Back in the swamps, she pressed her forehead to the stones. “I did it,” she 
moaned. She had opened a path back to where her last child had fallen. She sat 
straighten This time she could maintain contact with her new creation, a child 
with a bit of the swamp’s poisonous magick at its heart. It was a fragile 
connection, but so far it held.
She commanded the child to wing toward the slopes of the Northern Fang, into the 
heart of the storm. She would find Jaston and offer what aid she could. Bonded 
by love, she sensed the path she must take.
As the child flew, Cassa Dar felt something new, deep in the heart of her 
creation, another bond. The venomous adder stirred, responding in kind. Trained 
as an assassin in the art of poison and tied to the miasma of the swamp, Cassa 
was attuned to all forms of venom.
She opened her senses wider. As she did, ice seeped into her veins, chilling her 
bones. Not even the heat of the swamp could warm her.
Cassa Dar clenched two fists. Sensitive to the faintest wisps of poison, she 
knew what she felt. One thought formed in her mind.
Spiders.
i
Tol’chuk marched at the head of a column of og’res. The steep trail climbed in a 
series of switchbacks up the southern face of the Northern Fang. So far the 
threatening storm still held off, thundering and booming in the distance. Though 
the sun had just set, it was already as dark as midnight. Torches lit their way, 
held by one member of each hearth of the
Toktala clan.
Clambering atop a boulder, Tol’chuk watched the line of flames below, spread 
along the trail. Beyond, the western sky flashed with crackles of lightning.
Jerrick stepped beside his perch. His face was as white as his hair, his eyes 
lost in grief, but as he turned to the warring skies, he drew strength from the 
approaching storm.
Magnam climbed up next, holding the torch high. “How much farther to this cursed 
place?” he grumbled.
Tol’chuk waved vaguely upward. “The entrance be near. Another half league.”
Magnam moved past, shaking his head, while Jaston neared with Mog-weed. The 
shape-shifter whined even as he passed. “We should be heading down, not up. Or 
better yet, just stay in those caves and post guards. If there are dangers out 
here—from that spider wit’ch or enemy og’res— what are we doing so exposed? And 
another thing…”
Jaston just nodded. His expression had glazed over.
Tol’chuk climbed off his rock, joining Hun’shwa as the clan leader lumbered up. 
The warrior eyed the two men ahead of him.
“Tu’tura,” Hun’shwa said with a sneer, nodding to Mogweed, using the og’re word 
for the si’luran shape-shifter. He kept his words in his own tongue. “Those baby 
stealers are not to be trusted.”
Tol’chuk scowled, speaking in og’re. “Mogweed might make your ears bleed with 
his chatter, but he has no intent on our babies. This I
swear.“
Hun’shwa curled a lip, exposing one fang. “He still smells of treachery.” 
Tol’chuk did not bother trying to argue. To him, the entire highlands reeked of 
treachery. The Ku’ukla clan, the spider demoness, the Oath-breaker himself—who 
knew what other dangers would be faced ahead? He indicated the trail behind him. 
“Are your hunters ready?”
“They will be.”
Tol’chuk nodded. It was forbidden to bring weapons into the Dragon’s Skull. 
Still, they dared not go into the teeth of this storm unprepared. Other plans 
had been made.
«
A flicker of light flashed from high up the trail.
“The trackers,” Hun’shwa acknowledged. As the clan had marched out at sunset, a 
pair of trackers had been sent ahead. The og’re leader stared at the flickering 
code. “They’ve reached the entrance. The way is clear.”
Tol’chuk frowned. “And the other clans?”
Hun’shwa remained silent until the flickering died away. “Others already gather. 
The Sidwo, the W’nod, the Bantu, the Pukta.”
“And the Ku’ukla?”
Hun’shwa shook his head. “No sign.”
Tol’chuk did not like this. If anything, the Ku’ukla should have arrived first. 
While there were six different approaches up the Northern Fang to the Skull, one 
for each clan, the Ku’ukla path was the shortest. Their home caves were within 
the shadow of the Dragon’s Skull.
“What are they planning?” Tol’chuk mumbled.
Hun’shwa shrugged. “We’d best join the gathering. The storm will not hold off 
forever.”
As if agreeing with the og’re, a crack of lightning forked overhead, 
illuminating sky and mountain alike. For a fraction of a breath, the Dragon’s 
Skull was visible overhead. A massive slab of granite jutted like a snout from 
the southern face of the mountain. Under it, there gaped a wide opening, a 
tunnel. Framing either side stood two stone pillars, carved into giant fangs, 
marking the entrance to the Skull.
For untold centuries, the cavern beyond the entrance had been a gathering site 
for all the clans, a place of neutrality where conflicts could be resolved. It 
was said that the Skull had once been the true home of all the og’re people, 
their original communal cave. Now it remained a sacred place. None dared defile 
it with bloodshed.
As the lightning died away, the image persisted in Tol’chuk’s eye. Thunder 
boomed, and a hard, cold rain began to fall, as if the dragon above were roaring 
and weeping. With a certainty of bone and rock, Tol’chuk knew that blood would 
flow from the Skull this night.
Hun’shwa dropped back. “I will ready the hunters.”
Tol’chuk let him go. He increased his own gait, passing his companions to retake 
the lead. If there was danger ahead, let him be the first to face it.
As he climbed, he was unable to escape Magnam. The d’warf marched at his 
shoulder. “I’ve been thinking,” Magnam said as he pulled up his cloak’s hood 
against the rain.
“What about?”
“Once this is over, I’m going to buy myself a little place in the flatlands. 
Somewhere dry, somewhere where the most steps I have to climb is to my porch.”
“What about mountains and mining? I thought that be what you d’warves loved?”
Magnam made a rude noise. “Curse that! I’m done with holes and caves. From now 
on, I want open plains, sprouting fields, and vistas as wide as the world.”
Tol’chuk shook his head. “You be a strange d’warf.”
“And you’re not so typical an og’re yourself.”
Tol’chuk shrugged. More than anything, during the journey out in the lands of 
Alasea and back, he had learned one lesson: no one could be judged by their 
faces alone. There were layers to everyone and everything.
Again light flickered from between the entrance fangs to the Skull. Tol’chuk was 
not familiar with the hunters’ code, but from the frantic way the message was 
being sent, the urgency was clear.
“What’s up with the firefly?” Magnam asked.
Tol’chuk turned to see Hun’shwa rush through the others behind him. Mogweed was 
knocked on his backside. Jaston and Jerrick flattened against the cliff.
“The Ku’ukla are coming up their western trail, no females or young among them.”
Magnam still stood beside Tol’chuk. “What is he saying?” the d’warf asked.
Tol’chuk translated, but Hun’shwa still watched the flickering lights. “There’s 
movement spotted on the eastern path.” A long pause. “More Ku’ukla are coming 
that way.”
Atop the slope, other flickers began to shine, blinking from spy tunnels higher 
up the mountain.
A grumble built up inside Hun’shwa. “Other clans are reporting. The Ku’ukla are 
coming up all the trails!” He continued to stare. “They’ve stopped a quarter way 
up!”
Tol’chuk translated for his friends, who gathered around.
“They’re surrounding us,” Jaston said. “Pinning us down.”
A commotion erupted behind their own group, the frantic bleating of females and 
sharper cries of the young.
“What’s going on?” Mogweed squeaked.
“The Ku’ukla be on the lower switchbacks to our own trail,” Tol’chuk said, 
searching around. There was no way down but the clan trails. The rest of the 
mountain was cliffs and sheer drops.
“Are they going to attack?” Mogweed asked.
“So far they hold their position,” Hun’shwa answered, speaking for the first 
time in the common tongue. His eyes narrowed. “What be they planning? Even 
without weapons, the other clans could hold the Skull against the Ku’ukla.”
“They don’t mean to take the Skull,” Tol’chuk said. “They mean to keep anyone 
from leaving.”
“Why?”
The answer came from above.
A sharp scream split through the rumbling thunder, followed by a chorus of wails 
from the score of sentry holes. Tol’chuk froze, as did Hun’shwa. It was 
difficult to make an og’re cry out in pain.
“A trap,” Jaston yelled. “We have to retreat.”
“We cannot,” Hun’shwa grumbled. “We’ve no weapons against those who hold the 
lower path. We’d be slaughtered.”
“Then what are we to do?” Mogweed asked. The shape-shifter’s flesh rippled 
slightly in his growing panic. His eyes darted around, looking for some way to 
flee.
Tol’chuk pointed to the upper switchbacks. “Whatever attacks the Skull must be 
destroyed. We must protect the Spirit Gate.”
Mogweed’s gaze flicked to him and narrowed. After a moment, the shape-shifter’s 
flesh settled, hardening. He gave a curt nod.
“You wait with the females and the young,” Tol’chuk said, pushing forward with 
Hun’shwa, ignoring the protests from Magnam and Jerrick as he passed. “This is a 
matter for og’re warriors.”
“My hunters are ready,” Hun’shwa said.
“Then let’s flush out our prey.”
Half turning, Hun’shwa barked an order, and the cadre of selected warriors 
bustled forward at their leader’s command. Slung around their necks were goat 
bladders filled with oil. They loped ahead, up the last of the trail, followed 
by Hun’shwa and Tol’chuk. A second group of hunters trailed them, leaving behind 
a phalanx of older warriors to guard the remaining clan members.
Ahead the mountain had gone dark. The flashes of signals had died away. A steady 
rain pummeled the slopes.
“Protect the torches!” Hun’shwa called as he ran. “We must not lose the fire!”
The last switchback appeared, and the entrance to the Dragon’s Skull lay ahead. 
The lead warriors swarmed up toward the granite fangs that flanked the entrance.
“Where are our trackers?” Hun’shwa grumbled, squinting ahead, searching for the 
og’res he had sent up earlier.
The mountain remained dark. But now it had grown ominously silent. Only thunder 
rumbled, mournful.
The threshold to the Skull was a slab of granite wide enough to hold all the 
warriors. The lead group gathered just outside the carved fangs.
There was no sign of their sentries.
Hun’shwa bulled his way forward and stared down the dark throat of the tunnel. 
He gestured, and a torch was passed to him. He thrust it forward, but the 
sizzling flame was weak, shining barely past the entrance. He reached to a 
fellow beside him and grabbed his pair of goat bladders, strung together by a 
leather cord.
With his torch, he lit one bladder, then the other. Once they were smoldering 
and red, he winged the pair down the length of the tunnel. They struck the stone 
floor and burst, spraying the walls with flame. The way ahead was lit.
A few lengths down the tunnel, a body lay sprawled, facedown, feet toward them. 
Hun’shwa went to investigate, then motioned the others forward.
Tol’chuk reached his side first. The corpse was that of an og’re, but its skin 
lay blackened and bloated as if it had been dead for days.
“One of the trackers,” Hun’shwa said. He stared down the flaming passage. A few 
steps away lay a pair of smaller bodies. From their sizes, the youngsters were 
probably only a few winters old. They lay in postures of agony, blackened and 
bloated also. Farther down, other bodies could be seen as bulky shadows. 
“Ta’lank must have come inside when the screaming started. He only made it a few 
steps.”
One of the hunters near the entrance made a warning noise, and held his torch 
high, toward the roof. Across the rocky ceiling, silky white drapes hung, 
blowing with the wet storm gusts.
Tol’chuk reached and pulled down a section. It clung to his claws, sticky and 
oily. With distaste, he wiped it away. “Spiderwebs,” he said without surprise.
“The wit’ch you told us about?” Hun’shwa asked.
“She’s here.” Tol’chuk stared up at an empty sac of denser webbing that hung 
limp and flaccid. He imagined whatever had hatched from it had attacked the 
sentry and the others. Tol’chuk glanced back out the tunnel. “The Ku’ukla must 
know about Vira’ni. They waited until our clan was on the trail, then closed off 
any means of escape, driving us up into the deadly web she spun here to catch 
us.”
•
“What do we do?”
“What we set out to do.” Tol’chuk faced back down the tunnel; he knew it wound 
in a spiral up to the central cavern, with occasional smaller side tunnels 
leading off to spy holes, sentry posts, and storage spaces. He pointed ahead. 
“We raze the entire Skull.”
“A cleansing fire,” Hun’shwa said sternly.
Tol’chuk nodded. He remembered his last encounter with Vira’ni. He still bore 
the pitted scars from her spiders’ bites. In the past, it had taken two 
fires—ordinary flame and coldfire—to destroy the spider demon’s creations. This 
night it would be no different.
He stared at the oily fires lighting the passage, then squinted at the ruined 
bodies of the og’re children. This night there would be two fires once again: 
ordinary flame and the fer’engata, the fire of the heart, the vengeful blood 
lust of a united og’re people.
Tol’chuk strode forward, his eyes flashing with the beginning of his own fury. 
He saw one of the bloated bodies squirm with something roiling inside. In the 
past, he had witnessed the poisoned bodies of Vira’ni’s prey birthing new 
horrors; he barked an order to those that followed. “Burn the bodies. Flame 
everything!”
Hun’shwa quickly joined him. Behind them, the tunnel flared brighter; the ripe 
smell of charred flesh singed down the tunnel. Hun’shwa swung another corded set 
of goat bladders, splashing flame farther down the tunnel.
More bodies appeared. One took the flame of the burst bladders, igniting with 
unnatural speed. A flurry of tiny creatures exploded outward. All aflame, they 
scurried and fluttered from the burning body like a swarm of fireflies. Tol’chuk 
crunched through them, followed by the warriors of the Toktala clan.
“So where are the creatures that attacked these others?” Hun’shwa asked.
Tol’chuk had an idea. He wagered every entrance, spy hole, and sentry post of 
the Skull had been primed with the malignant web sacs of Vira’ni. Once 
unleashed, the creatures fled inward, killing all in their path.
“Where are they?” Hun’shwa repeated, swatting as a burning scorpion landed on 
his arm. “Where is this Vira’ni?”
“Where all spiders lurk,” Tol’chuk answered, pointing ahead, toward the cavern 
named the Dragon’s Skull. “At the heart of her deadly web.”
Jaston hunkered under a lip of rock with his companions. It offered scant 
protection against the storm. Rain lashed, cold, stinging like a whip.
The winds had grown, threatening to tear them from the trail. The og’res seemed 
little bothered by the storm. They crouched on the path like so many tumbled 
boulders, water sluicing over their craggy features.
The remaining members of the clan, the females and the youngsters, kept apart 
from the newcomers. Near at hand, a single female suckled a babe and stared 
round-eyed at them, accusation in her gaze. Whatever curse had befallen the clan 
had started with the return of Tol’chuk and the arrival of his companions.
Jaston turned from the stare. Down the path, a cadre of hunter-warriors stood 
guard between their wards and the Ku’ukla clan below. But he also noted the trio 
of huge og’res closer at hand, keeping near Jaston and the others in case they 
should prove a danger.
“Whatever Tol’chuk is doing,” Magnam said, “he’s not exactly furtive.” The 
d’warf stood a step out of the shelter.
Jaston joined him. The entrance to the Dragon’s Skull glowed red with flames, as 
if it were a fire-breathing demon. Winding up from there, each opening in the 
mountain shone with firelight. Jaston could make out the slight spiral to the 
pattern, like the winding body of a wyrm—a wyrm with a fire in its belly.
“I hope they have enough oil and fire to reach the chamber,” Jaston said.
Magnam squinted through the downpour. “A fire doesn’t sound half bad right now.” 
The d’warf continued to stare up, the frustration clear on his face.
Jaston took up sentry with him. “There’s little help we can offer Tol’chuk and 
the others.”
“Sometimes, in battle, a little help is the difference between victory and 
defeat.”
Jaston glanced over at the d’warf. “I thought you were just a cook?”
“Fine,” he growled, “then sometimes a little spice is the difference between a 
great meal and a ruined one.”
Jaston sighed. “I don’t like being left behind either.”
“What do we do if Tol’chuk fails?” Mogweed asked as he huddled deep in the 
shelter. “Did anyone think of that?”
“Of course,” said Magnam, not turning around.
“What?” Mogweed asked, his eyes hopeful of a plan.
Magnam shrugged. “We die.”
Mogweed frowned, sinking back.
The elv’in captain placed a hand on the shape-shifter’s shoulder. “Fear not. If 
need be, you can transform into a winged creature and fly from here.”
■
Mogweed stared out into the storm, lancing and forking with spears of lightning, 
winds howling. From his pale face, it was clear that the prospect of flying into 
the dark storm did not appeal to the shape-shifter. “Just because I can grow 
wings, doesn’t mean I have a natural ability to fly,” he said dully. “It would 
take time to gain the skill to wing such a fierce storm safely.”
“Well, something is managing it,” Magnam said. He pointed an arm toward the 
warring skies.
Jaston glanced to where he pointed, but all he saw was black emptiness, as if 
the world had vanished beyond the reach of their sizzling torches. Then a crack 
of lightning flashed, returning the world for a blinding moment. In the skies 
overhead, a winged creature rode the gusts like a storm-tossed skiff—then 
darkness swallowed it away.
“What was that?” Jerrick asked. “It’s like no bird I’ve ever seen.”
Jaston squinted, waiting for the next bolt of lightning. The elv’in captain was 
an elemental of the air. If Jerrick couldn’t identify the creature…
The next crack was farther away, offering just a flicker of light. The shape was 
gone, vanished from the skies.
“Maybe it’s some demon,” Mogweed whispered.
Jaston unsheathed his sword. Others slid weapons free, too, except for Jerrick, 
who lifted a hand crackling with the energy of the storm itself. Og’res might 
not be allowed to bring weapons to the meeting, but there was no such 
restriction on man, si’luran, d’warf, or elv’in.
A growl arose from one of the trio of og’res nearby. The baring of weapons and 
play of magick had drawn their attention.
Lightning again crackled across the night, flaring brighter than the sun. The 
skies remained empty. Whatever had been spotted earlier had clearly fled.
Then from below the cliff’s edge that bordered the trail, a form shot up only a 
few arm’s lengths away. The party tumbled back, retreating under the narrow lip 
of their temporary shelter. Og’res barked in warning, and grumbled shouts 
erupted.
The creature alighted on the rain-slick trail. It was a small girl, svelte and 
thin-limbed. Her wings flapped once, then tucked away behind her. “I have this 
many fingers,” she said, holding up a hand and wiggling her digits.
This provoked a response from an og’re warrior. He loped toward the child, fist 
raised, clearly meaning to smash it to pulp.
Jaston bolted between them. “No!” he shouted. Though the word probably meant 
nothing, the tone and the raised sword spoke clearly.
The og’re grumbled, eyes flashing with menace. But he held off for the moment.
Jaston turned to the newcomer. “Cassa?”
The girl stared up at him, crinkling her nose in childish confusion. Then her 
eyes quickened with intelligence. “Jaston! I found you!”
“Cassa… how… ?”
“I don’t have time for explanations. The ground you stand on reeks of poisons. 
You must get away, now!”
“I cannot. We’re trapped.” He quickly related their situation.
As he finished, the child turned to where the spiraling and snaking path of fire 
led far up the mountain. “It comes from there!” She pointed. “Venom trickles 
down this peak like a horde of spiders.”
Jaston took the child by the wrist.
“Ow!” the girl complained.
“I’m sorry, lass.” He spoke rapidly. “Cassa, did you say spiders?”
“That is the poison I scent from that peak.”
“Vira’ni,” Mogweed cried.
“So the spider wit’ch has spun her web up there,” the d’warf said dourly.
“What are we going to do?” Mogweed whined.
Jerrick answered from behind them all, his voice afire with vengeance. “We join 
Tol’chuk in burning the creature from her nest.” Small bolts of energy crackled 
from his fingers as he pushed past Jaston and the swamp child. “The demoness 
will pay for Freda’s death.”
“We can’t go up there!” Mogweed yelled. “It would be our deaths!”
Magnam hiked his ax to a shoulder. “I’m going.” He stepped forward, heading 
after Jerrick. “At least we’ll be out of the cursed rain and wind. If I’m going 
to die, I’d rather it be when I’m dry and warm.”
Jaston turned to follow them.
“My love,” the child said, warning.
“I must. The danger here threatens you as much as it does me.”
After a moment, she nodded. “At least keep me with you. It may take poison to 
fight poison.”
Jaston took the girl’s hand and glanced back. “Mogweed?”
The shape-shifter looked back at the line of og’res, out to the storm, then up 
the mountain. He shook his head, then tromped after the others, a scowl on his 
face. “I hate spiders.”
I
The heat had grown near to blistering. The flames behind Tol’chuk cast his 
shadow ahead. Flanking him, a pair of og’res tossed a smoldering set of 
oil-filled bladders down the tunnel’s throat; flames burst and the air reeked.
Hun’shwa pushed to his side. “We’re almost out of oil.”
“How much farther to the Skull?” Tol’chuk asked.
The clan leader squinted. He was covered in soot. Several deep burns marked his 
skin, blistered and red. “No more than a quarter league.”
“Then we protect what we have.” Tol’chuk waved back the pair of hunters. “The 
true fight lies ahead of us.”
Hun’shwa nodded.
Tol’chuk marched on, skirting the new flames. Since the last turn in the 
passage, no more bodies littered the floor. Whatever monsters had been birthed 
by the spider queen’s egg sacs had killed those in the lower levels. Then the 
victims’ screams must have chased any other og’res into the main chamber. The 
natural response of his people when threatened was to group together. Few 
menaces could challenge a cornered pack of og’res.
But what had happened to the others? Had they all succumbed like those here, 
blackened by poison? No one spoke as they continued onward. Dread weighed 
heavily in everyone’s heart.
Hun’shwa shoved the end of a dead torch into the fresh flames and brought it to 
life. With the sole brand as a light source, they continued down the dark 
passage. So far they had lost only one of their twenty-odd army. The unfortunate 
fellow had approached too close to one of the bodies. It had burst before the 
flame could damage the flock of winged crablike i
creatures inside. By the time aid reached the hunter, half his face had been 
consumed, and the beasts were already burrowing into his chest. They were forced 
to burn him while he still lived. The flames had quickly muffled his screams.
Since then they had proceeded with additional caution.
Tol’chuk refused to let anyone else lead after that. If there were new traps 
ahead, he wanted to be the first to face them. He walked a step in front of 
Hun’shwa. The brand the leader held sputtered out, leading to a mumbled curse.
As darkness settled around them, Tol’chuk spotted a weak glow ahead. He hissed 
for silence. They proceeded more slowly, a short distance toward where a reddish 
light marked the end of the tunnel, a baleful ruby hole.
Tol’chuk stopped.
“The Dragon’s Eye,” Hun’shwa mouthed in a hushed whisper. The chamber of the 
Skull lay beyond the Eye’s threshold.
Tol’chuk took a deep breath to steel himself. Hun’shwa placed a hand on his 
shoulder and gave a short squeeze. In this small gesture, Tol’chuk felt the 
backing of the entire Toktala clan.
Tol’chuk motioned for the others to hang back, then continued ahead. After a few 
steps, he found Hun’shwa following. He glanced to his uninvited companion. 
Hun’shwa ignored his narrowed eyes and nudged him ahead. The larger og’re still 
held the burned-out torch in one hand like a club.
Frowning, Tol’chuk crept forward. They separated to either wall and slid up 
toward the Eye.
As Tol’chuk approached to within a few steps, a flurry of tiny scraping sounds 
echoed out to him, like a thousand flint blades rubbing against rock. The sound 
raised the tiniest hairs of his body.
With a final tightening of his resolve, Tol’chuk moved to the Eye and peered 
through the threshold. As prepared as he was for any horror, the sight before 
him stunned him to a stop.
Lit from below, the Dragon’s Skull was a cavernous chamber. The Eye opened 
halfway up one wall. A domed ceiling lay above, cracked in places, allowing 
rainwater to sluice down in trickling streams, like a hundred waterfalls. 
Thunder rumbled beyond the mountain, threatening, heavy.
Below the Eye, the bowled floor lay as far down as the roof was high. From the 
opening of the-tunnel, the walls sloped in a series of wide steps or tiers. In a 
clan-wide gathering, the steps would act as galleries to seat the assembled 
members.
To his despair, Tol’chuk saw the seats were not empty. Thousands of og’res lay 
slumped upon the tiers, some singly, some in family groups, some in tumbled 
piles. And strung like Winterfest garland, streams of ropy webbing lay over the 
still bodies.
Tol’chuk felt his legs weaken, his vision dim. All the clans… his entire people…
“They live,” Hun’shwa whispered urgently.
It took Tol’chuk a moment to comprehend. Near at hand, the chest of the closest 
og’re slowly rose and fell while his head lolled, a rope of drool hanging from 
slack lips.
Tol’chuk peered wider, noticing small movements among the others here. Not dead, 
he realized with relief, but poisoned or magicked into some unnatural slumber. 
He straightened near the entrance. As long as they still breathed, there was 
hope for his people yet.
As he stared, a voice oily and slick rang out from the lowest tier of the 
stepped cavern. “Tol’chuk! Be welcome!”
Tol’chuk searched, but he knew who called. “Vira’ni…”
Down below, the floor was a steamy glowing cauldron. A wide crack split the 
floor of the chamber, through which molten rock churned and spat tongues of 
flame. The glow lit the entire cavern.
The Dragon’s Throat.
The rainwater streaming from the ceiling ran down the tiers and drizzled into 
the gullet of the Dragon, raising a continual stream of mist and sweltering 
steam. Even here at the entrance, the heat challenged that of the flaming 
passage behind him.
“Come. Don’t be shy, my gentle giant.”
“Stay hidden,” Hun’shwa hissed. Before Tol’chuk could object, Hun’shwa dashed 
through the Eye and down a few of the tiers. He rose onto his legs, threatening 
with his makeshift club. “Show yourself, demon!”
A long silence, then cold laughter met his display.
Tol’chuk stepped out. “Get back, Hun’shwa!”
“So it seems you’ve brought guests. As a host, I’d be remiss not to offer the 
same courtesy.” Tol’chuk spotted movement below: a darker shadow moving through 
the steam. “Children, don’t be bashful. Come and play!”
Again Tol’chuk heard the sounds of knives dragging across rock, skittering and 
sharp—the same noise had stopped as he had reached the Eye. He searched for the 
source, but it did not come from the floor below.
He and Hun’shwa craned upward.
What had appeared to be outcroppings of rock dotting the domed roof began to 
move, scurrying on jointed legs with sharp, armored tips scrabbling and 
scraping. Each was the size of a large dog. As he stared, Tol’chuk saw others 
squeeze though the cracks, dragging themselves inside from the mountain’s 
slopes.
“Demonspawn,” Hun’shwa growled.
One crawled directly overhead. It appeared a monstrous cross between a crab and 
a scorpion. But this one had a mouth. Hanging by its rear legs, it clattered at 
him with its front pincers while baring fangs. Green oil dribbled from its open 
maw.
Tol’chuk backed from under it. Hun’shwa also retreated. “Come, my children!” 
Vira’ni beckoned from below. Suddenly, from behind them, an og’re began to 
bellow a short way down the tunnel. Tol’chuk knew there were more of these 
creatures crawling into the passage from the open sentry posts and spy holes, 
attacking the other hunters from the flanks and rear, driving them forward like 
the previous attack.
Any retreat was cut off.
Tol’chuk cursed himself for not thinking like a spider. He had never imagined 
anything could cling to the smooth slopes of the Fang. Now the ceiling crawled 
with demonspawn, while below he spotted a dark shadow in the steamy mists. This 
time it did not hide.
“Come, Tol’chuk. Bring the Heart to me and I’ll let your slumbering people live. 
One bauble for so many lives.”
A wet gust swept down from the openings above, shivering his hot skin. Thunder 
rumbled anew as the heart of the storm struck. The wind parted the steam below.
Perched at the edge of the Dragon’s Throat was a creature of nightmare: half 
woman, half spider. The demoness crouched atop eight jointed appendages, her 
eyes staring directly at Tol’chuk.
Hun’shwa fell back. One of the crab creatures dropped from the ceiling. 
Responding with the instinct of a true hunter, the og’re swung his club and 
batted the beast backhanded. It flew, mewling, over the tiers and crashed to the 
stone.
A scream arose from Vira’ni. “No!” Hissing with venom, the demoness spun atop 
her chitinous legs and grabbed something bundled behind her. Tol’chuk spotted an 
array of similarly trussed objects.
She swung around, bearing her bundle in one of her pincer-tipped legs. It took a 
breath for Tol’chuk to recognize the object, wrapped thickly with webbing. Then 
he spotted an arm waving from the cocoon: a child, an og’re child that struggled 
against its binding.
Vira’ni held it over the molten pit of the Dragon’s Throat. “One of your 
children for one of mine!”
“No!” Tol’chuk cried.
Her eyes met his for a heartbeat—then she dropped the babe. Flailing its arm, 
the child fell into the crack. As the form struck the molten rock, flames flared 
up, lipping out of the throat. Then the child was gone.
There had been no cry—only the silent one in Tol’chuk’s heart.
Vira’ni whipped around and grabbed two more web-bound children. She held them 
over the churning pit of molten rock. “I’ll only ask one more time, Tol’chuk. 
Come to me! Bring the Heart!”
“Don’t,” Hun’shwa warned him. He had retreated to the threshold of the Eye. 
Behind him, the cries of the hunters deeper down the passage had died down to 
sporadic howls.
“Go help the others,” Tol’chuk ordered his clan leader. “Save as many as you can 
and leave this place.”
“I will not!”
Tol’chuk ripped open his thigh pouch and yanked free the Heart. It burst to a 
radiant brilliance. “Do as I command!” he shouted.
Hun’shwa staggered backward at his bellow. He hesitated another moment, then 
seemed to spot the resolve in Tol’chuk’s posture. With a final grunt, he fled 
into the darkness.
Tol’chuk turned back to Vira’ni. He stared at the tumble of bodies around, then 
at the two dangling children.
“I will not let the innocent die in my name,” he mumbled, and met the gaze of 
the spider queen. He knew in that moment that some battles could never be won. 
He would not see his entire people sacrificed… not even to save the Spirit Gate. 
It was a burden he was born to bear, the curse of his lineage. Like his 
forefather, he would forsake his promise. He would give up the Heart to this 
evil in order to save his tribe.
“Come to me!” she commanded again. So with demonspawn skittering overhead, he 
climbed toward the steamy floor and the cursed fate that awaited him.
MoGWEED HUNG BACK FROM THE OTHERS… BUT NOT TOO FAR BACK. The passages were hot 
with smoldering bodies and flaming bits of debris. Most of the bodies appeared 
to be cratered ruins, as if something had burst out of their chests and bellies.
At first, the group had proceeded quickly. In the fiery wake of the og’re 
hunters, there had been little to slow them. Only a few palm-sized scorpions, 
limping on broken legs or half burned, scrabbled over the stone.
Then the screams had started, echoing down to them. They proceeded more 
cautiously. Mogweed had wanted to turn back, but the others overruled him.
Fools, he thought. And I’m doubly the fool to follow them. Besides his fear of 
retreating alone, Mogweed had another concern that kept him with the others: 
Tol’chuk. The og’re was the key to freeing him from the curse of this conjoined 
body. If the craggy giant was in danger, Mogweed’s only hope was to aid in his 
rescue.
Just ahead of Mogweed, Jerrick moved deftly. The captain, though old, still bore 
the elv’in gift for speed. Mogweed had to half trot to keep up, but he kept 
close to the walls, darting past side tunnels, skirting any openings. In the 
front, Magnam and Jaston led. The strange winged child skipped at the swamper’s 
side, oblivious to the danger.
“Not much farther,” Magnam whispered, beginning to slow. The screams had died 
down to howls and an occasional bellow of rage. “What’s attacking them?” Jaston 
asked.
The answer crawled out of a hole in the nearby wall. The creature was all armor, 
spear-tipped tail, and snapping pincers. It skittered out of its hiding place 
and, before anyone could move, it climbed up the wall on its articulated, spiny 
legs, going for the advantage of height.
“No you don’t, you crawling scab!” Magnam swung out with his ax, moving with 
speed that belied his bulky shape. He swatted the creature from its perch.
The monster landed on its back, quickly springing up and lashing out with its 
pincers. The d’warf spun with his ax and cleaved the closest claw. With a 
mewling howl, it skittered backward.
“Don’t like that, do you?” Magnam growled. He struck out with his ax again, 
nicking its raised tail. The beast spun on him, striking with lightning speed. 
Fanged jaws stretched wide as it sought flesh to bite.
“Careful,” the swamp child warned in Cassa Dar’s voice. “It’s pure poison.”
“Poison it may be, but I’m the cure.” Magnam kicked the creature up against the 
nearest wall, holding it in place with his boot. Its legs scrabbled at him, but 
he slammed his ax into its midsection with a crack of armor shell. Green ooze 
flowed from the wound, steaming over Magnam’s boot, etching the leather. “I just 
polished those!” he shouted, and brought the ax down again and again. Soon all 
that was left was a mash of scale and twitching limbs. Magnam scowled and backed 
away. He studied his fouled ax head, searching vainly for something to wipe it 
on, then gave up. The sounds of a similar battle continued farther up the 
passage. Magnam waved them on. “Let’s go!”
Mogweed peeled himself off the wall and followed, eyeing each shadow now with 
suspicion.
Jaston clapped the d’warf on the shoulder. “That was some damn fancy ax work. 
And you say you’re just a camp cook.”
Magnam shrugged. “What cook doesn’t know how to prepare crab?”
Jerrick hissed from a short distance ahead. The elv’in captain had sped forward 
and now crouched at a bend. “Trouble,” he said with his usual elv’in stoicism, 
but energy crackled around the hand he had raised toward them.
They joined him. Beyond the turn, the passage ahead was a battlefield, almost 
blocked with og’re bodies. Farther up the tunnel, a handful of og’res used 
torches as flaming brands or clubs to hold off more of the crablike creatures. 
The entire passage crawled with them.
“We can’t go that way!” Mogweed whined.
“We can’t go back,” Jaston said.
The group glanced behind them. Another dozen monsters scrabbled out from 
neighboring passages or through sentry holes in the wall. A pair fought over the 
remains of the creature killed by Magnam.
“They must’ve been drawn by the blood of their own,” Magnam noted.
They were surrounded.
Jerrick stood up and moved to the far wall. He had a good view up and down both 
passages. He lifted his arms, one hand pointed each direction.
“What are you doing?” the swamper asked.
“Clearing the way,” he said simply. “I suggest you stay low.”
His eyes drifted closed. Energy danced around his fingers, crackling outward, 
shooting from fingertips in dazzles.
Mogweed ducked to the floor. The others crouched.
The child at Jaston’s side pointed at the elv’in. “Sparkly!” Jaston pulled her 
arm down.
Around them, the air began to smell of lightning, and the power tingled 
Mogweed’s skin. Somewhere beyond the walls, thunder boomed. Mogweed kept half 
his attention on the elv’in, half on the passages, where the creatures in the 
lower tunnel were drawn by Jerrick’s display and skittered toward them.
“What are you waiting for?” Mogweed mumbled.
Jerrick heard him. “The heart of the storm.” The el’vin craned his neck. His 
white hair plumed out sparking with fire. A nimbus of energy shimmered over his 
form.
Magnam drove back one of the crab demons with a swipe of his ax. “You’re looking 
impressive, Cap—but these bugs are about to climb up our arses.”
“It comes…” Jerrick whispered. His skin grew translucent, but now several of the 
beasts from up the tunnel scuttled toward them. Mogweed gripped his dagger.
A single crab raced toward the elv’in, running up the wall. Mogweed bit his lip, 
frozen in indecision and fear, as the creature came racing like a moth to a 
flame. At the last instant, Mogweed leaped forward, dagger raised in defense.
“Down!” Jerrick screamed.
Mogweed was blown back as energy blasted outward, blinding him. He struck the 
wall and crashed to a heap. He blinked away the dazzle in time to see crackles 
of lightning flowing out from both arms of the elv’in. The creature that had 
threatened a heartbeat ago lay on the floor, a smoking cinder, legs curled 
tight.
Mogweed rolled to watch lightning chase down both corridors, crackling from the 
elv’in and diving in through the spy holes and sentry windows. This was no wild 
energy, but a living thing, snapping and forking to strike every one of the foul 
creatures.
Up the corridors, the og’res saw the destruction and dove to the floor. The 
deadly barrage swept over them and beyond, leaving them untouched. Then like the 
flicker of lightning in a storm, the display vanished. The passage went black as 
pitch until Mogweed’s eyes readjusted. The passage’s flames seemed dim and 
feeble after the living lightning. “You did it,” Magnam said, rising to his 
feet.
Jerrick still stood in the corridor, but he suddenly slumped limbless to the 
floor. The swamp man barely caught him before the captain’s head struck the 
floor.
“Captain Jerrick!” Jaston called.
“Drained…” he whispered, his eyes fluttering closed. “Freda…”
Jaston held him. The captain’s pale skin remained translucent, his breathing 
shallow.
Mogweed slid to his other side. “Is he going to be all right?”
The swamper frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think he struck at the demons with 
just the heart of the storm. I think he used his own, too.” Mogweed believed 
him. He doubted even Meric could have displayed such force.
The elv’in captain took one more deep breath, exhaling one last time. “My love…”
For a moment, Mogweed thought he heard an answer, the same words whispered again 
from afar. But maybe it was just an echo. Then Jerrick lay still.
“He’s gone,” Jaston said.
Magnam joined them. He eyed down the passage, where five or six og’res were 
climbing to their feet with shock. “I don’t see Tol’chuk.”
Mogweed saw the d’warf was right. From the group down the passage, a single 
og’re bulled forward—Hun’shwa, the og’re leader. He worked through the piled 
dead toward them and glanced to the limp form of Jerrick. He curled a fist to 
his forehead, bowing his head in a moment of respect. “He died a warrior. He 
will be honored and remembered.”
“Not if we don’t live to tell the tale,” Magnam said. “Where’s Tol’chuk?”
Hun’shwa lowered his arm. “He went to face the spider wit’ch alone.”
“What?” the d’warf gasped. “And you let him?”
If an og’re could look chagrined, this one did. “He commanded it.”
“And you obeyed?” Magnam rolled his eyes. “What happened?”
Hun’shwa quickly related the tale of Vira’ni and what lay at the tunnel’s end.
“More of the creatures.” Magnam sighed. He stared around the group, his brow 
furrowed. “An ax, a sword, a dagger, and an og’re’s fist against a spider queen 
and her horde. This is not a recipe for victory.”
Mogweed stood, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Then what are we going to do 
?”
The d’warf focused those hard eyes on him. “There may be a way.”
“How?” Jaston asked as he lowered the elv’in captain to the floor.
Magnam did not glance to the swamp man. He continued to stare at Mogweed. “It 
will depend on this one here.”
Mogweed took a step back. “Me?”
Tol’chuk straightened from his crouch, glancing back up to the Dragon’s Eye, the 
entrance to the huge cavern. Thunder rumbled away. A moment ago, lightning had 
burst out of the Eye and lapped into the chamber, like the forked tongue of a 
snake, then had vanished away.
Unable to fathom this display, he twisted around, clutching the Heart in a fist. 
His lungs burned, and the scent of brimstone and sulfur filled his senses.
Two steps down and across the pit, Vira’ni still stared toward the Eye, her face 
transfixed in a horrified expression. Her dark hair lay limp against her pale 
skin, soaked by the constant steamy mists. From the waist down, her form merged 
with that of the spider. Its ruby shell glistened and shone, pebbled with beads 
of condensing water.
Overhead, her demonspawn had frozen in place, becoming again just rocky bumps on 
the ceiling.
With the wit’ch distracted, Tol’chuk searched quickly for a weapon. All around 
him lay the sprawled members of the other clans; ropes and mounds of webbing 
shrouded their still-breathing forms. He saw no weapon among them. No one dared 
come to this sacred place with a club or bone ax.
He did not know what to do. All he knew was that two of the tribe’s children 
were in danger, dangled over the pit by the wit’ch. He tightened his grip on the 
Heart. The chunk of heartstone was the key to the Spirit Gate; to give it up 
threatened the whole world. But right now, his world was nothing more than these 
two children.
Vira’ni moaned. “My babies!” she cried. “Someone slew my babies.” Her limbs 
shook with her rage. Tossed about, the og’re children cried out.
Tol’chuk hurried down the last steps and faced Vira’ni across the crack in the 
floor. Here the heat was near to unbearable, wafting up from the molten heart of 
the mountain. A constant hissing roar seemed to flow from the Throat along with 
the scalding steam.
He lifted the heartstone to draw her attention. In the misty chamber, the Heart 
shone with its own light. “I have what you want, Vira’ni! What your Master 
wants! Do not make more children suffer!” He pleaded with his eyes and posture.
Vira’ni narrowed eyes still smoldering with fury. For a long moment, she locked 
gazes with him.
Tol’chuk feared she would toss these children into the molten cauldron as she 
had the other. “Please… I know you be a mother, too. Show mercy.”
One eye twitched. “A mother…” she mumbled.
“All mothers fear not only for their own children, but all children.”
Tol’chuk pressed.
Her brow furrowed with confusion, and she gave a nod at his words. She glanced 
to the og’re young in her grip as if surprised to find them there. “ Poor, 
scared things…” She began to pull back the children.
Then from across the cavern, the familiar flinty scrape of claw on rock sounded. 
Both Tol’chuk and Vira’ni turned.
Out of the Eye, one of the demonspawn skittered into the chamber. It was badly 
singed, missing one pincer and two of its eight legs. A mewling escaped its 
throat. It tried to clamber down toward the demoness that had birthed it, but it 
mostly fell and rolled, a pathetic sight.
“My little one!” Vira’ni cried, anger rising in her voice. She tossed one of the 
og’re children aside and beckoned with the free claw. “Who hurt you, my sweet?”
Tol’chuk silently cursed the untimely return.
As the loathsome child reached her side and scuttled under her swollen shell of 
a belly, raw fury flamed her next words. “We will make them pay! For each of my 
babies harmed, I’ll take a score of yours!” She rattled the last child in her 
grip. “And I’ll start with this one!”
A new noise sounded from the Eye, and a band of og’res burst into the room, 
brandishing torches. To Tol’chuk’s surprise, he saw among them the stout figure 
of Magnam and the wiry form of the swamp man. And from their midst burst some 
winged creature. It sailed over the room, keeping a distance from the 
demon-strewn roof. Tol’chuk squinted and realized it was some strange child. 
What new demon was this?
But Vira’ni seemed equally confused, craning her neck. “It’s a little girl.”
Tol’chuk frowned. Had the others chased this new creature in here? Words in 
Og’re reached Tol’chuk—from Hun’shwa. “Be ready!”
Tol’chuk glanced to him. Ready for what?
Vira’ni followed the flight of the demon child. Then suddenly her expression 
shifted to one of shock. Her gaze darted downward. “What’s wrong, little—” Then 
a scream burst from her as her bulbous rear suddenly arched high, as if shoved 
from below.
What was happening?
Off balance, Vira’ni toppled headfirst into the chasm. Her limbs flew wide as 
she fought to maintain her balance. The articulated legs caught the rocky edge 
of the pit, keeping her from a plunge into the molten rock, holding her 
precariously in place. She screamed in fear, trying to scrabble backward, but 
something still kept her rear end pushed up, blocking her retreat.
Responding with pure instinct, Tol’chuk lunged forward. He dove around the 
Throat’s edge. Ripping the young one free from her flailing pincers, he tossed 
the child to safety.
“Are you going to help me?” someone screamed from behind Vira’ni.
Tol’chuk ran back and spotted Mogweed under the spider’s belly. He i
strained against her bulk, pushing up with both arms, while webbing flowed from 
holes along the backside of the spider, half covering the struggling 
shape-shifter.
Tol’chuk instantly understood the ruse. The injured demonspawn— had been a 
disguised Mogweed! The others had distracted Vira’ni long enough for the 
shape-shifter to get in place and attack.
“Don’t just stand there!” Mogweed yelled, spitting webbing from his lips.
Tol’chuk turned and saw Vira’ni trying to sidle sideways off the pit. Tol’chuk 
shifted to block her. “You and your Master want the Heart!” he bellowed. “Then 
have it, wit’ch!”
He drew to his full height and swung the stone with all the strength of his arm 
and shoulder. He struck her in the side of the head and felt bone crack with the 
impact. Blood sprayed his hand.
Her wailing scream ended as if cut by a blade. Her struggling form jerked; then 
the strength went out of her limbs, and the wit’ch toppled into the Dragon’s 
Throat.
Tol’chuk dove to the side, dragging the shape-shifter out of harm’s way.
From the Throat, a gout of fire roared up as the monstrous bulk struck the 
molten core. The heat blistered Tol’chuk’s back. He sheltered Mogweed under him.
Then it died quickly away.
Tol’chuk rolled around. There was no sign of the demoness.
From the ceiling, clots of oily blackness fell, striking the floor in wet 
splashes—demonspawn falling back to nothing with their birth mother gone.
Tol’chuk sat where he had fallen. He clapped Mogweed on the shoulder.
The shape-shifter looked haggard, but oddly proud.
The others quickly joined them. Magnam stepped to the edge of the steaming 
Throat. “I’d like to see the Nameless One try to revive that wit’ch now.”
The strange winged creature landed nearby and Jaston went to her side. 
“Tol’chuk, this is one of Cassa Dar’s swamp children.”
The child took in the slumbering clans. “Sleep poison,” she said in a voice much 
older than her form. “It will wear off.”
Hun’shwa reached out a hand to help Tol’chuk stand. “When they awake, we will 
have a new leader—a leader of all the clans.”
Tol’chuk stared around at the mass of og’res. “What about Cray’nock and the 
Ku’ukla?”
Hun’shwa barked to one of the other hunters. The og’re loped away.
“We’ll hold them off until the other clans awake.” His voice grew hard. “Then we 
will make them suffer for the blood here.”
Tol’chuk frowned. More fighting between the clans… It wasn’t what the og’re 
tribe needed right now. But he saw no other way. Against the darkness to come, 
the clans had to be united. If necessary, the Ku’ukla would be forced to bend 
their knee.
Nearby, one of the other hunters pointed to Tol’chuk. “Kree’nawl!” he said 
fiercely, beating a fist to his chest.
The chant was carried by the others. “Kree’nawl! Kree’nawl!”
At his side, Mogweed stared as Hun’shwa joined his voice with the others. “What 
are they saying?” the shape-shifter asked, wobbling a bit, clearly exhausted.
“Wit’ch Slayer,” Tol’chuk translated with a frown.
Mogweed scowled. “Wit’ch slayer? Don’t let Er’ril hear them call you that.”
Tol’chuk clapped him on the shoulder again.
Magnam stepped away from the edge of the Throat. Frowning, the d’warf pointed to 
Tol’chuk’s hand. “Is that the Heart?”
Tol’chuk lifted the stone with which he had slain the wit’ch. “Of course. Why—?” 
Then he saw it, too. He held the stone higher as the blood drained cold to his 
feet.
The Heart was black as pitch and streaked with veins of silver.
“It’s changed to ebon’stone!” Mogweed gasped.

Elena waited for Er’ril to finish with the horse trader. The pair had been 
arguing all morning over terms for the necessary mounts and tack.
Her ears long grown deaf to the debate, Elena leaned on the corral’s fence and 
stared toward the bustle of Woodbine, a loggers’ and trappers’ village carved 
out of the great forest of the Western Reaches on the Mirror River. From this 
small hill, she could spy down upon the crowded streets jammed with overflowing 
carts and refugees, like themselves, from the magickal devastation around Moon 
Lake.
It had taken Elena’s party eight days to reach the township here. Traveling 
east, they had followed the Mirror River through the ruined forest that had 
stretched for two leagues beyond the banks of the lake. Hiking through the 
fallen logs and tangled limbs had been slow. By the second day, they had reached 
virgin forest and found the trail crowded with others fleeing the devastation. 
Along the way, Elena had heard many tales of tragedy and woe: destroyed homes, 
grave injuries, missing family members.
“All because of me,” she mumbled as she stood by the corral. The haunted faces 
of parents, the hollow eyes of children, the tears—all because of a war of 
magicks. It wore on her strength, leaving her constantly weary and sullen.
She glanced down to her gloved hands and remembered the night they were 
transported here. She had been unable to touch the moon magick. For just that 
one night, she had been an ordinary woman with two snow-white hands and an 
unburdened heart. It had felt so freeing. But come dawn, her powers had 
returned. First wit’ch fire from the sun, then coldfire from the
I
next night’s moon. And once again, she had become the Wit’ch of Spirit and
Stone.
Sighing, Elena noted a figure climbing the rutted road up the hill toward the 
horse barns. He jangled as he walked. She lifted an arm in greeting.
Harlequin Quail acknowledged her with a nod and marched over. His expression was 
not a happy one.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Her words drew a small smile from the diminutive man. “Looking at the black side 
of things these days, aren’t we?”
She stared over his shoulder at the crowded streets. “These are black days.”
“Perhaps this will cheer you up.” He reached a hand toward her, offering a 
palmful of gold coins.
Elena’s eyes widened. Magicked from the castle courtyard without warning, they 
had arrived here with little resources: a few pieces of silver and a few more of 
copper. And out here in the wilds, they dared not reveal their true identities, 
lest they make matters worse. Along the trek here, they had heard tales, stories 
of their own exploits at A’loa Glen and beyond. But as often as not, the tales 
cast them as the villains. This far into the wilderness, stories from the 
distant shores had a way of changing from one mouth to another. So the group 
kept their silence, especially with the recent devastation to the region. 
Tempers were high, suspicions even higher, forcing them to scrounge for supplies 
with the meager coins in hand. Elena stared now at the fistful of gold. “Where… 
? How… ?” Harlequin shrugged. “The way I figure, so many of these merchants are 
scalping these poor folks flooding in here, it was up to someone to lighten 
their greedy purses.”
“You stole it?”
He shrugged again. “I prefer to consider it a secret tax to the cause.” The man 
nodded to Er’ril and the horse trader and stepped toward them. “Let’s see if we 
can shorten this war of wills before someone gets hurt.”
Elena noted that Er’ril had indeed grown red-faced. His voice was strained with 
suppressed fury. “That mare is not worth half the price you ask!”
The plainsman was right. The nag was bow-backed and looked to be at least thirty 
winters old.
“I’ve plenty of other folk interested in horses these days,” the trader said 
calmly, nodding to the jammed streets of Woodbine.
Er’ril opened his mouth to argue, but Elena motioned him to step away. Harlequin 
showed him his bounty. The plainsman’s face registered the same shock, then 
relaxed with relief. He turned to the trader, a pock-faced fellow dressed in 
leathers with a horsewhip on his hip. “Let me see your finest steeds.”
The man blinked in surprise. “I thought you said…” He glanced to the nag.
“Your finest,” Er’ril repeated.
The trader frowned at him with suspicion. “Don’t waste my time, sir. If you 
don’t have the coppers for Millie here, then you’ll not have the gold for my 
best.”
Er’ril picked up one of the coins from Harlequin’s palm. “Is this gold enough 
for you?”
The trader eyed the coin, his eyebrows rising. His posture straightened. “Well 
then, this way, sir!” The man crossed to a gate in a neighboring corral and 
ushered them through toward a set of barns under the eaves of the forest.
A loud explosion of splintering wood sounded from one of the two barns they were 
nearing. Er’ril’s hand dropped to his sword. Another blast of shattered planking 
erupted. A pair of men came diving out a small door.
The trader called to them. “What’s the matter now?”
One of the men dusted off his leather leggings with a lasso of rope. “We was 
just tryin‘ to move the black to another stall.”
The other answered, coiling up a length of whip. “The demon came near to 
crackin‘ my skull.”
The trader glanced back to them. “I’m sorry, folks, for the commotion. I bought 
a big horse off some trappers a couple days ago; it looked great for 
log-dredging, but the dang thing is as mean as a kettle is black.”
Another crash sounded inside.
The trader shook his head. “I should’ve known better when they brought the demon 
in here hobbled in shackles.” He loosened his own whip from his belt. “Dang 
trappers said they found it running wild up north. Must have some blood of those 
wild Steppe stallions in it or some-thin‘.” He waved his men to accompany him 
toward the barn. “This’ll only take a few moments.”
Er’ril frowned at the delay, and Elena understood his consternation. Joachjiad 
reached Xin back at A’loa Glen via his black pearl, a magickal link to the zo’ol 
tribesman. An elv’in scoutship would meet them at the summit of the Pass of 
Tears in another six days. They did not want to miss the rendezvous.
i
As the horsemen disappeared into the barn, Elena stepped with Er’ril and 
Harlequin to one of the fences. Word coming from A’loa Glen was a mix of both 
bright and dark. Their forces were already en route toward Blackhall. The elv’in 
warships and the fleet of the Dre’rendi had set sail two days ago, accompanied 
undersea by the leviathans and dragons of the mer’ai. Farther north, the d’warf 
army marched overland from Penryn, heading toward the Stone Forest, which lay 
within the shadow of the volcanic peak. So far all was going well.
But not all of the news was this hopeful. Elena had also heard about Sy-wen’s 
corruption by something hatched from the ebon’stone egg. The mer’ai woman still 
remained missing, so Kast had stayed behind at A’loa Glen, protecting the island 
and searching for his mate.
Pondering Kast’s loss now, Elena stared over at Er’ril. She could only imagine 
the Bloodrider’s pain. If she had lost Er’ril…
Across the yard, the barn doors crashed open. A large black form flew into the 
corral, huffing and stamping. It moved with grace and speed, a storm of muscle 
and steel-shod hooves, followed out by the three horsemen. One had a lasso 
around the beast’s neck and was being dragged across the rutted dirt. He finally 
let go and tumbled to a stop. The other two chased the huge horse, their whips 
snapping in chorus to their screams.
Harlequin stared at the giant beast, his eyes huge. “What a mound of horseflesh. 
I’d hate to be the one owning that monster.”
Er’ril stepped forward and waved to the horse trader. “How much for the black?” 
he yelled.
The trader ran past, red-faced and panting. “If you can catch him, he’s yours 
for a dang copper!”
“Deal!” Er’ril called back. “Are you daft, man?” Harlequin gaped at him. “That 
beast will kill the lot of us.”
Er’ril ignored him and whistled sharply. The giant black stallion skidded in its 
tracks, turning sharply and pawing at the ground. White plumes blew from its 
nostrils. Its wild eyes focused on the trio by the fence.
Er’ril whistled again.
In response, the horse whinnied loudly and galloped toward them, kicking up 
dirt. The trader dove out of his way before being trampled.
With a curse, Harlequin leaped away. “Get back, lass!” he called to
Elena.
She waved away his concern and stepped to Er’ril’s side. The stallion thundered 
over to them, then stopped with a loud huff. Sweat steamed off its glossy black 
coat, and one steel-shod hoof dug at the dirt. The horse sniffed at them, then 
reached a nose toward Elena.
She reached a gloved hand to the stallion and reassured the giant beast with her 
touch. “It’s good to see you again, too, Rorshaf.”
The stallion was Krai’s war charger. She remembered how the steed had been lost 
a winter ago, when the mountain man and the others had been attacked near the 
Stone of Tor up in northern reaches of the forest.
She patted the mighty stallion as it nuzzled her hand. A sad whinny flowed from 
its chest. She leaned closer, hugging her arms around his neck. For a moment, 
old memories flooded her: of the endless trail, she atop her gray mare, Mist, 
and the mountain man leading the way atop his war charger. In some small way, it 
was like having a piece of Krai returned to them.
She whispered in the stallion’s ear. “We miss him, too.”
At her side, Er’ril flipped the trader a dull copper coin. “We’ll take him!”
Meric argued with the merchant. “You can’t expect eight coppers for that paltry 
bag of dried peaches. Eight should buy at least four bags.”
The merchant pulled up a second bag and placed it beside the first, as if he 
were doling out satchels of diamonds. “That’s the best I can do, friend.” He 
motioned vaguely to the crowds that filled the riverside bazaar.
Meric plunked down the coins and grabbed up his supplies: dried peaches, 
cranberries, and nuts. With a grumble, he turned to Nee’lahn. “Let’s go.”
The two of them strode through the jammed bazaar. Hawkers of every sort, from 
bakers to tailors, called from open-air stalls that lined the wharves. Nearby, a 
merchant of pots banged his wares for attention, while in the next stall, a 
butcher waved the flies from the hanging flanks of skinned rabbit.
Deaf and blind to the merchants, Nee’lahn stared at the river. It was all muddy 
banks, as the river’s normal flow went to fill the empty lake so many leagues 
away. Until the winter rains could refill the waterways, travel by river had 
been choked off.
Thus they were forced to travel overland. So while Er’ril bargained for horses, 
Meric and Nee’lahn were hunting up larder and supplies, but it was no easy task. 
With the hoarding of goods, the flow of displaced folk, and the stagnant 
traffic, each copper bought less and less.
Meric jingled the handful of coins left in his pocket. So far he had the i
dried goods, a crate of hardcake, and some cookware. It had even cost a copper 
to have the supplies delivered to their rooms at the inn. If Er’ril hadn’t 
assigned the castle guards to aid the refugees, they could have helped carry 
supplies. But then, Meric thought ruefully, they would have to purchase more 
supplies—and with what coin? Meric sighed, scouting out his next battle. 
Somewhere in the long bazaar, there was supposed to be a merchant who sold dried 
and salted meats, but so far, they had not come across his stall.
They pushed through the crowd. About them were faces of fear and worry. Families 
carried their lives on their backs. Children, normally boisterous and loud in a 
bazaar, were unusually quiet, holding the hands of their parents.
Nee’lahn sighed, her expression weary and sad as she stared around. “The 
magickal blast harmed more than just the lake and the surrounding forest. That 
single wound continues to bleed this region.”
“This region and our own purse,” Meric added.
“Yes, but we’ll surely manage. Can the same be said for many of these folk?” 
Nee’lahn stared down at a little girl who clutched a tattered doll to her chest. 
Her eyes were haunted. Her father walked through the stalls with the same eyes, 
his left arm splinted and slung.
Meric eyed the pair, too, as they disappeared into the crowds. Had the man been 
injured by the blast? A twinge of guilt cut through his frustration. Though they 
were not directly to blame, where did their own responsibility for this tragedy 
begin or end?
Meric motioned Nee’lahn ahead. “Let’s finish and get back to the inn.” After a 
few more spent coins, they made their final purchases. Meric paid out his last 
two coppers for a wax-sealed comb of honey.
As they turned back to the inn, Nee’lahn leaned closer to Meric. “We’re being 
followed,” she whispered.
“What?” He resisted the urge to swing around.
“Pause at the next stall and look over your right shoulder. The fellow with the 
green cloak and slouched hat.”
Meric searched, then spotted the man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his 
features hidden in shadow by his hat. Meric was careful not to stare for too 
long, lest the man know he had been spotted. He glanced to Nee’lahn. “A thief 
perhaps.”
She nodded. “We’d best be wary.”
They continued onward. The green-cloaked fellow kept a distance away, but he 
never left their trail.
Soon they were free of the riverside bazaar and back into the streets. Here the 
way was less crowded. The lurker had to keep a greater distance.
Meric frowned at the fellow’s persistence. He was clearly not an ordinary 
cutpurse; victims were easier to target in the tumult of the bazaar. So what did 
this fellow want? Meric touched his own magick, drawing energy from the winds 
flowing up the river channel. He lowered a hand casually to the sword on his hip 
and prepared to act with the speed of an elv’in if necessary.
Nee’lahn flicked her eyes to his sword. “Perhaps rather than waiting for an 
attack, we should spring the trap first.”
Meric glanced to her. “Do you have the strength?” The trek through the ruined 
woods around Moon Lake had taxed the nyphai woman. But once back in healthy 
forest, she had slowly revived.
She nodded, swinging her lute from her shoulder. “Though this town is cut from 
the Western Reaches, it is but a ship atop a sea. Under the land here, the 
forest persists in the flow of roots and the richness of loam.”
Meric noticed how she grew more beautiful as she touched her own magick. It was 
a subtle change: a sharper cast to her violet eyes, a deeper honey to her hair, 
a richer glow to her skin. “Then let us indeed lay our own snare.”
“Follow me,” Nee’lahn said, and ducked into a narrow side street. Here there 
were only a few people on the rutted road. She increased her pace, searching for 
something.
“What are you—?”
“Here!” she whispered, tugging him toward an alehouse window. Inside, a few 
patrons sat around plank tables, gripping flagons of mead as if their lives 
depended on each drop.
“The alley,” Nee’lahn whispered. “On my word.”
Meric noticed the shadowy space between the alehouse and a neighboring 
blacksmith. The sound of hammers and the hissing roar of forges echoed to the 
streets.
“Here he comes,” Nee’lahn whispered, nodding to the reflection in the window. 
“Quickly.”
She led him into the alley. They hurried toward a pile of empty barrels stacked 
near a side door to the alehouse. The yeasty reek of stale hops filled the 
space.
“We’ll wait for him here,” she said as Meric shrugged out of his bags and hid 
their supplies by the barrels. “Be ready with your blade, but let me act first.” 
Nee’lahn slid the cloth covering from her lute. She ran her fingers
I
along the strings and grew even more lovely as her magick swelled inside her. 
She now shone with an inner warmth and richness that ached his heart. “He 
comes,” she whispered, drawing him back to their plight and pushing him farther 
into their hiding place.
Between the stacked barrels, Meric and Nee’lahn spied as the lurker stepped to 
the mouth of the alley. He glanced up and down the street. His very posture was 
a frown. Slowly he slipped into the shadows between the alehouse and the 
blacksmith.
Meric felt Nee’lahn tense beside him.
The attacker glanced back to the street. He waved. A second and a third man 
entered the alley. They were similarly clad in cloaks and slouched hats.
Meric flinched. There wasn’t just one thief. He glanced back; the alley ended a 
few steps behind them at a brick wall. The only other way out was the side door 
to the alehouse. But even if it was unlocked, it lay on the far side of the 
barrels.
Nee’lahn squeezed his hand, silently warning him to be ready. Then her hands 
moved to her lute.
Meric tightened his grip on his sword. There were only three, and the two of 
them had the advantage of surprise. Then Meric startled as another two cloaked 
figures entered the alley.
The odds had just worsened, and now Meric wasn’t sure who had the advantage of 
surprise. Yet another figure entered the alley, making it a total of six 
attackers.
Nee’lahn remained where she stood, calm and shining. Meric was surprised the 
others in the alley did not spot her beacon.
From his vantage, Meric watched the first lurker edge toward the piled barrels. 
The fellow waved one of his cohorts to test the alehouse door. The man whisked 
to obey.
Meric tensed. The banging of hammer on anvil from the neighboring smithy seemed 
to echo Meric’s own heartbeat, thudding loud in his ears. The cloaked figure 
tested the door. It was indeed locked or barred.
In the alley, all eyes swung to the stack of barrels.
So much for the advantage of surprise.
The hammering continued, seeming much louder. Then one bright note cut through 
the noise: a single plucked lute string.
Everyone froze in the alley.
Nee’lahn strummed down the remaining strings, building a complex chord that rang 
through the alley.
The first lurker pointed, but before anyone could move, a tangle of roots shot 
out of the ground, tangling up like a net. Three men were captured. The 
remaining three bolted away.
“Run!” Nee’lahn cried. But before they could take two steps, the root-captured 
figures underwent a strange transformation.
Meric grabbed Nee’lahn and pulled her away.
All three melted down out of their cloaks and slithered snakelike from their 
root cages, a flow of living flesh. Once beyond the bindings, each formed a 
different forest creature: a woodland cat, a giant eagle, and a white wolf. The 
transformed beasts took flight on wings and paws.
But at the mouth of the alley, the wolf stopped. This beast had been the first 
lurker. Meric now sensed it was a female—a she-wolf. Her pelt shone snow-white 
in the sunlight of the street. She glanced to them, her eyes burning amber with 
fury. Then she was gone.
“Shape-shifters,” Nee’lahn gasped.
JOACH SAT IN A CHAIR ACROSS FROM GrESHYM. ThE INN WINDOW WAS
thrown open, allowing the sounds of the town to echo up to their second-floor 
room: the shouts of merchants, the babble of common folk, and somewhere nearby a 
lone babe wailed. They were all the sounds of life— and before him, trussed in 
ropes, sat the very figure of such vitality.
The darkmage smiled at him from an unlined face, his hair a rich brown. His 
shoulders were square, his back straight. Joach could not remember ever being so 
hale. Yet he knew he must have once been, for staring him in the face was his 
own youth, stolen by a spell.
Joach leaned on his staff, his cheek resting against the petrified wood. The 
afternoon heat threatened to lull him into a drowse, but he fought against it. 
The trek here had worn his joints sore and ached his heart. But worse than the 
hard leagues was his proximity to Greshym. For the past winter, Joach had 
plotted revenge, planned ways to reclaim his stolen youth. Now his enemy had 
been dropped at his feet, bound and impotent.
And he could do nothing about it.
His grip tightened on his staff. He frowned at the Blood Diary resting atop a 
table in the room, the source of his consternation.
Greshym noted his attention. “Destroy the book and we can have at it, my boy.”
Joach straightened in his seat, wincing with pain. “As much as I might wish it, 
that will never happen. But don’t worry. There will come a time when we will 
settle our old scores.” These last words were as much a promise to himself as to 
the darkmage.
Greshym’s smile became bitter. “Then spend your last winters dreaming of youth, 
because that’s all you’ll ever have.” The darkmage glared over to the Diary.
The magickal tome bound Greshym here much more than the ropes with which Er’ril 
had secured the man. Cho had cast a spell upon the darkmage in her fury, drawing 
a bit of his spirit into the Void and tying it there. Thus bound, any magick 
Greshym collected would be drawn immediately into the Void. The spell 
effectively stripped the darkmage of his powers.
Unfortunately, it also stymied any of Joach’s spells; any magick—dream or 
dark—cast upon Greshym was simply sucked into the Void, too. Neither of them 
could act. It was a stalemate of wills and power. Days ago, upon capturing 
Greshym, Er’ril had wanted to slice the mage’s throat, but Elena argued against 
such rash action. They faced a great battle at Blackhall, and any knowledge of 
the volcanic peak’s secret defenses or forces could prove crucial. Also Greshym 
had intimate experience of the Black Heart and his lieutenant Shorkan, details 
that could mean the difference between victory and defeat in the days ahead. So 
the darkmage was allowed to live, a prisoner amongst them.
Greshym sighed. “There is so much I can teach you, Joach, so little you 
understand of your full potential.” These words sounded both tired and oddly 
honest.
Joach squinted at his adversary. “There’s nothing you can teach me that I’d want 
to learn.” But even to his own ears, these words rang hollow.
Greshym shrugged. “You’re too raw to your talent to know what you dismiss so 
readily.”
Joach’s eye twitched. He knew he was rising to bait but he couldn’t help it. 
“Like what?”
“You’re a dream sculptor. Such a one as you hasn’t been born in countless 
generations. If I bore such a gift…” His words trailed off. The tip of his 
tongue moistened his lip. “I could stand against the Black Heart himself.”
Again Joach sensed the honesty behind these words. True or not, Greshym believed 
it. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Greshym’s eyes focused back on Joach. “All I will tell you is that the line 
between dream and reality is not as firmly drawn as most imagine. If you believe 
in a dream solidly enough, sculpt it with enough of your heart and spirit, it 
can cross over into reality.”
Joach swallowed hard. Had not Shaman Parthus hinted at such a blurring of the 
line between reality and dream?
Greshym spoke softly. “I know what you want, Joach.”
“You know nothing.”
Young eyes stared, and a young mouth spoke one word. “Kesla.” Anger filled those 
spaces inside Joach that were hollow and empty. His voice boiled over with this 
fury. “Never speak her name again, mage. Elena’s wish or not, I’ll take a dagger 
to you.”
Greshym shrugged at the threat. “Death is also a blurry line when one is granted 
life by the Black Heart.”
Joach scowled, but he knew he could never kill the mage, not until he regained 
his youth and learned this hinted secret: a way to make dreams real. He pictured 
a girl with golden hair and violet eyes, and the weary ache in his heart 
threatened to overwhelm him.
Oblivious to Joach’s pain, Greshym continued, leaning back in his chair, “We are 
not unalike, my boy.” Joach scoffed.
“Do we not both crave the youth robbed from us? Is this not so?” His voice 
dropped to a sly level. “Must we always be enemies? Couldn’t we share what we 
both desire?” Joach frowned. “Share?”
“I give you back half the years stolen, and I keep the other half. Each will be 
a bit older, but neither will be decrepit.”
“Why should I do that?”
“To learn what I might teach you.”
Joach ran his fingers down this staff. The ripe dream energies trapped there 
flowed like his own blood. Over these past winters, he had grown in his power, 
but he was far from a master. Could Kesla indeed be made real? “What would be 
the cost for such a lesson?”
“Mere trifles. My freedom, my life.”
“So you can betray us again?”
Greshym rolled his eyes. “You place too much importance on your own significance 
to me. In truth, I had hope never to see the lot of you again.” Joach looked 
doubtful.
“There is no love lost between Shorkan and myself, as you well know. I’ve 
betrayed the Black Heart for my own desires. Do you truly think I want any 
dealings with them?”
“Why? What is this difference between you and Shorkan? Why is he so unfailing in 
his allegiance and you so fickle?”
“Ah…” Greshym leaned back as much as the ropes would allow. “Before the book was 
forged, Shorkan was always more… well, dedicated to his causes. To him, 
everything in the world was divided along clearly defined j ja
lines: black and white, right and wrong. I had a more pragmatic view of life. To 
me the world was a tad more gray. So when the Blood Diary was forged and the 
spell attempted to split the good from the bad, it had a harder time with me. I 
carried many shades of gray, so the division was not as crisp and clear. I 
suspect it was one reason the spell left me so disfigured: immortal but aging of 
body.“
“So you’re saying Shorkan is more loyal because it was easier to draw off all 
that was good in him, leaving only the black for the Dark Lord.” Greshym sighed. 
“While I’m still laced with shades of gray.” Joach stared at the figure before 
him, wondering at this revelation. “So free me,” Greshym continued, “and I’ll 
leave you to your little war. You’ll be free to join such a battle, a younger 
self, ripe with dream mag-icks the likes of which you’ve never—dare I 
say—dreamed’t”
Joach listened, uncertain. He knew Greshym could never be trusted. But perhaps 
with enough safeguards in place…
The door to the room banged open, startling Joach. He twisted around, earning 
another painful twinge from his aching back.
Meric burst into the room, out of breath, followed by Nee’lahn. “Are Elena and 
Er’ril not back yet?”
Greshym frowned and nodded to the room’s cot. “They’re hiding under the bed.”
Meric was so shaken he even glanced there.
“They’re still rounding up horses and tack,” Joach said. “What’s wrong?”
Nee’lahn answered, clearly the calmer of the two. “Si’lura,” she said.
“We were followed through the market.”
“Shape-shifters?” Joach pulled himself to his feet. “Why were they following 
you?”
Meric found his tongue. “Maybe they were common brigands.” He tossed the 
purchased supplies atop the bed. “Laden as we were, we may have been simple 
targets.”
Greshym spoke from his chair. “Si’lura have little need for dried peaches and 
kettle pots. They are forest creatures, half wild. I’d suggest you think deeper 
upon this encounter. I doubt it was chance that they are here.”
“I agree,” Nee’lahn said to Meric. “That she-wolf seemed more than a mere 
thief.”
His reply was cut off when a commotion erupted from the inn courtyard: shouts 
and the clatter of hooves, followed by a sharp whinny and a crash of pottery.
A voice cut through the excitement. “Step away!”
Meric hurried to the open window. “It’s Er’ril.”
“I’ll lead the black!” the plainsman yelled. “Stable the others!”
“You’ll pay for those pots!” another man cried. Joach recognized the innkeeper’s 
voice.
“This should settle our accounts,” Er’ril said.
A short pause. “Gold! Break all the pots you want, good sir!”
Joach and Nee’lahn joined Meric at the window. Below was chaos. Ten horses 
jostled about in the cramped courtyard, churning up dust and dirt.
Most wore saddles and packs. He spotted Harlequin darting toward the kitchen 
door of the inn, attempting to avoid being trampled. Elena rode a sleek brown 
mare, while Er’ril led a monstrous black stallion toward the stables.
Meric stiffened beside Nee’lahn. “Isn’t that Krai’s mount?”
“Rorshaf,” Nee’lahn agreed, and frowned. “What strangeness is this?”
“We should help settle the horses,” Meric suggested. “And tell about the 
shape-shifters.”
Nee’lahn nodded, and the pair headed out the door.
Joach returned to his chair and his guard duty. The darkmage’s eyes followed 
him.
“This next leg of the journey should prove most interesting,” Greshym mumbled. 
“Shape-shifters… strange reunions…”
“So?”
“After having lived for so many centuries, I’ve learned one thing.”
Greshym’s eyes bore into Joach. “Never trust chance encounters.”
I
Er’ril rode Rorshaf down the rutted path. Since they had left Woodbine three 
days ago, the forest road had dwindled to this narrow, crooked trail that 
followed the Mirror River. All day long, their party had not come across a 
single fellow traveler. And with the sun setting, the trail stretched empty 
ahead of them. It seemed the world had shrunk down to just their small group and 
the endless forest beyond.
Still, empty trail or not, Er’ril maintained his vigilance. Entire armies could 
lurk in this dark wood and keep themselves hidden. A deep green gloom settled 
with the waning sunlight. In the distance, nesting birds sang and argued, but 
otherwise the forest remained silent. The quiet pressed down upon their group. 
Everyone spoke in hushed whispers. Even the horses seemed to tread softly, their 
hooves muffled by the carpet of pine needles and thick loam.
With night falling, Er’ril searched for a campsite. He wanted somewhere near the 
river but high enough to offer an advantage if they were attacked.
As he studied the terrain, Elena shuffled her brown mare forward to join him. He 
glanced over to her. She wore a green riding cloak over brown leggings and a 
gray shirt. Her face was worn and tired, but some of the despair in her eyes had 
faded since leaving the sorry streets of Woodbine. The plight of the many 
hundreds displaced by the magickal explosion had affected her deeply. But here 
in the woods, free of the constant reminder, she slowly regained her center, her 
strength.
“We’ve had word from A’loa Glen,” she said.
Er’ril twisted in his saddle and spotted Joach pocketing the large black
[
pearl that connected him to the zo’ol shaman, Xin, back at the castle. Beyond 
Joach, the others rode in a line, including Greshym. The darkmage had been 
lashed to the saddle, his horse tethered to Meric’s gelding. Greshym caught his 
eye. He wore an amused smile and gave a nod in Er’ril’s direction. The pair 
shared a history that extended back centuries.
Er’ril tore his gaze back to Elena. “How fare the preparations for the siege of 
Blackhall?”
Elena walked her mare beside the larger stallion. “Xin relayed a message from 
Prince Tyrus. He leads his pirate brigade in advance of the other fleets. They 
are a fortnight out from the Bay of T’lek.”
Er’ril nodded. The icy northern bay surrounded the volcanic eruption that was 
Blackhall. “They’re making good headway.”
“He anticipates the assault will be ready to strike with the next moon.”
Er’ril grimaced. It frustrated him to be stuck in the Western Reaches during 
this critical time. For centuries, he had dreamed of bringing the battle for 
freedom to the shores of Blackhall itself, but now that it was actually 
happening, he was lost, hundreds of leagues away, whisked away by a miscast 
spell.
He bit back his anger and drew his thoughts to their own objective. “And what of 
the threat in Winterfell? Any word of the Wyvern Gate?”
There was a long, pained silence. Elena finally spoke. “No. An envoy was sent 
from Standi, but they never returned.”
A growl built in Er’ril’s chest.
Elena continued. “Rumors continue of razed foothill villages and attacks by 
misshapen beasts at night.”
“The sooner we rendezvous with the elv’in ship, the sooner we can discover the 
answers on our own.”
Elena sighed. “The ship has already set out. Barring any unforeseen obstacles, 
we should both reach the Pass of Tears at the same time.”
Er’ril frowned. Barring any unforeseen obstacles… Dare he hope for such a lucky 
circumstance?
A voice arose on his other side. Harlequin Quail marched his small piebald 
gelding up from the ranks. “Is that a fire ahead?”
Er’ril stared forward. To the right of the trail, a faint flickering of 
firelight illuminated the deep gloom, the glow reflecting off the neighboring 
Mirror River. “A campfire,” he said, frowning, angry at himself for letting his 
attention wander.
“Perhaps they’re other travelers?” Elena offered.
Er’ril pulled his stallion to a halt and signaled for the others to follow i
suit. He could make out shadows moving against the light. There appeared to be 
more than one in the other party. “I’ll go ahead. Everyone else remain here.”
Nee’lahn slid from her horse. “I should go with you. If there is a danger in 
these woods, the forest will protect us.” The nyphai woman shone with a stunning 
vitality. She had clearly drawn considerable magick from the wood during this 
journey.
Er’ril nodded. Nee’lahn was in her own element here. She handed Meric her lute. 
“Keep it safe,” she said. Her fingers lingered a moment longer on the elv’in 
prince’s hand; then she turned to Er’ril. “Continue along the path. I’ll cross 
through the forest.”
Without waiting for an answer, she headed into the woods, where the trees 
swallowed her away as if she were a mere figment. Er’ril nudged Rorshaf and 
began down the trail. “Be careful,” Elena warned.
“Always,” he assured her. He walked his horse at a steady pace. There was no use 
attempting stealth. He suspected whoever camped here already knew of their 
presence. In a few moments, he crossed around a crook in the path. The others 
disappeared behind him. Beyond the bend, the trail continued in a gentle arc 
toward the river. At its nearest point lay the strangers’ campsite.
Er’ril slowed his pace and Rorshaf huffed, sensing his rider’s wariness.
This close, Er’ril could make out the shapes by the fire. He was relieved to see 
they were mere men. Five—a manageable number as long as more were not hidden in 
the woods.
Er’ril kept one eye on the campsite and another on the surrounding forest. There 
appeared to be no others. Then again, he could not spot
Nee’lahn, either.
Er’ril moved his war charger forward. “Ho! What news of the trail?” he called 
out, a common greeting among travelers.
One shadowy figure stepped to the trail. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man 
with a coppery beard that draped down his bare chest. He wore a pair of dappled 
leggings and black boots.
Though he clearly bore no weapons, Er’ril sensed a wary menace in the man’s 
cold, hard stare.
Rorshaf snorted loudly, dancing angrily on his hooves.
The other’s eyes shifted from Er’ril to the stallion, then widened with 
recognition. “Bloody Mother!” the man grunted coarsely, taking a step back. 
“It’s that demon we sold in Woodbine.”
Er’ril calmed Rorshaf. He recalled the horse trader’s mention of trappers. Were 
these the men who sold the stallion?
“Mean cuss, that one,” the bearded stranger said. “But I see he’s taken a shine 
to you.”
Er’ril shrugged, keeping one hand on his upper thigh, his wrist touching his 
sword’s hilt. “He just takes a firm hand.”
“That so?” The man’s attitude remained gruff, but a bit more respect entered his 
tone. “He nearly took off one of my men’s thumbs when he licked a whip on the 
monster.”
Er’ril frowned. “Not all commands require the crack of a lash to be firm.” As he 
spoke, he noted the others by the fire, staring back at them.
Another of the group stepped to the trail, a slender woman dressed in the same 
dappled outfit of green and blacks. She, too, had hair that shone in hues of red 
and copper, shorn to her shoulders. She laid a hand on the larger fellow’s arm.
“Excuse my brother’s welcome,” she said. “These are sour times in the Reaches, 
and a healthy suspicion is wise in the wilds.”
Er’ril shifted his hand a fraction from his sword. “My companions and I mean no 
threat. We only seek word of the trail ahead.”
“There is little we can share, since we travel the same direction as you… away 
from Woodbine.” She gestured back to the fire. “But night falls, and we can 
offer the warmth of our hearth and the hospitality of our camp instead.”
Her brother’s face had darkened with these words, his brows bunching like storm 
clouds. But he remained silent—the offer had been made.
Er’ril glanced to the bright fire, then out to the black woods. He sensed no 
malice in the two before him, only wariness. In this dark forest, a few extra 
eyes guarding against dangers were as welcome as any fire. “I thank you,” he 
said, bringing his fist to his belly in the common gesture of hospitality 
accepted. “May the Mother bless your hearths for your generosity.”
As he finished, a scream suddenly shattered through the quiet woods, freezing 
everyone in place for a heartbeat. A sword appeared in Er’ril’s fist as the cry 
died away.
Er’ril searched the forest. It was Nee’lahn. He was sure of it. Immediately the 
thunder of hooves sounded on the trail behind them. Er’ril swung around in his 
saddle and spotted Elena, leading the others swiftly on horseback around the 
crook in the trail. The scream must have panicked them forward to his aid.
The gruff trapper backed a step. “What betrayal is this?” He pulled his sister 
toward the trees.
i
“We mean no harm!” Er’ril called. He feared creating a new enemy at his back. 
Whatever lay out in the wood had best be faced together. “Fear not from us! It 
is the woods you must guard against!”
The woman shook out of her brother’s grip. Er’ril met her gaze, his eyes 
pleading as hoofbeats thundered behind him. She turned to the larger man. “I 
believe him, Gunther. If there is evil afoot, let us join forces.”
The man scowled, then nodded. He swung into the woods. “To the fire then, 
Bryanna!” He shouted to his men. “Arm up!”
The woman called to Er’ril. “Ready your people and join us at the fire.” With a 
swirl of her cloak, she followed her brother.
Er’ril raised his blade. “To me!” he called, as his own companions closed the 
gap.
Elena was the first to reach his side, her mare’s chest heaving.
“Nee’lahn…” she said breathlessly.
“I know.” He slipped from Rorshaf’s saddle. “We’ll secure things here, then 
search for her.”
Atop his piebald gelding, Harlequin nodded toward the fire. “And what about this 
rangy lot? Do you trust them?”
“We have no choice. Besides, I’d rather have these trappers where I can see 
them.” He led the giant war charger toward the fire. “Follow me.”
Still mounted, the others walked their horses behind him. Ahead, extra branches 
were added to the bonfire, driving the blaze higher, while the Mirror River 
flowed shallow between muddy banks. The rest of the forest remained dark as the 
sun finally set.
Er’ril tied off his mount near where the trappers’ horses were tethered. The 
others dismounted and did the same.
Meric landed lightly on the ground and stepped to the horse behind him. “What 
about Greshym?”
Er’ril frowned as the darkmage was loosened and pulled to the ground. Though the 
man’s arms were still bound and Cho’s dampening spell remained in place, he 
dared not leave the mage unguarded. He turned to Joach. “Keep a watch on him.”
Joach nodded. He shifted his gray staff under one arm and grabbed
Greshym’s elbow with the other.
Meric crossed to Er’ril’s side. “We must find Nee’lahn,” he said anxiously.
“We’ll find her,” Elena assured him, stepping to join them.
She went to remove her gloves, but Er’ril stopped her with a touch to her arm. 
“Not yet… Use your magick only if necessary.”
Elena hesitated, then secured her gloves. She reached to her waist and pulled 
free her silver dagger.
Harlequin in tow, Er’ril led the group to the campfire. Gunther and Bryanna 
joined them. The other three trappers, all men, stood with their backs to the 
fire, watching the woods. All of them bore short swords. Gunther also carried a 
hand ax in his other fist. Bryanna had a bow in hand and a quiver of fletched 
arrows over a shoulder.
Gunther eyed their group, his gaze lingering an extra moment on Elena. He then 
turned a stern eye on Er’ril. “Have you any idea what threatens us?”
Er’ril shook his head. “The scream was one of our companions, a woman. She was 
in the woods.”
Gunther’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but before Er’ril could elaborate, 
Bryanna gasped. “The forest!”
Er’ril and the others turned their attentions outward. Just beyond the reach of 
the firelight, eyes glowed back at them, at least a score. Some were low to the 
ground, others higher in the branches of the trees.
As Er’ril raised his sword, other eyes bloomed, deeper in the forest surrounding 
them. With each breath, more and more appeared, in all directions, even across 
the river.
Elena stripped off her gloves. This time Er’ril did not object.
More eyes appeared in every size and shape, extending leagues into the trackless 
woods. Some glowed through narrow slits, while others were round as saucers. 
Only one feature was shared by all: Each pair of eyes glowed amber.
“Shape-shifters,” Meric whispered.
Er’ril stared out at the silent army around them. “What do they want?”
Gunther spoke at Er’ril’s shoulder. “We’ve had dealings with the si’lura before, 
trading and such. But I’ve never seen a gathering like this.”
“It makes no sense,” Bryanna said. “They’ve never been hostile unless provoked.”
Er’ril shared a glance with Meric. Shape-shifters again—but why? What were they 
after?
“Maybe it’s the horse,” one of the other trappers mumbled.
Er’ril glanced to the speaker. “What do you mean? What about the stallion?”
Gunther waved away the man’s words away with his ax. “That makes no sense.”
Er’ril refused to let this strange statement pass. Iron entered his voice. 
“Explain yourself.” i
Bryanna answered, speaking rapidly. “We traded a cask of bitterwort spice for 
the black a few leagues from here. It was said the stallion came from the 
flooded forest, where the Stone of Tor fell. We figured to fetch a good price in 
Woodbine—it’s a logging town where a stout horse is always in demand.”
“Now we know why the black went for so cheap a price,” Gunther grumbled into his 
beard.
“What does this have to do with the si’lura?”
Bryanna glanced to him. “That’s who we bought the stallion from.”
They all stared out into the dark wood. Hundreds of eyes glowed back at them. 
What was going on?
Dazed and bleeding from a cut on her forehead, Nee’lahn struggled against her 
bonds. The ropes bound her to the trunk of a large oak. She heard the song of 
the mighty tree, but gagged with a roll of cloth, she could not join her voice. 
Without song, she was cut off from the magick all around her.
She watched dark shapes lope, slither, and pad among the trees, indistinct 
shadows in the gloom. She had been caught by surprise, walking into a trap as 
she had focused on the flickering flames of the campfire. The treesong of the 
forest had offered no alarm. But then again, why should the Great Wood be 
concerned with shape-shifters? The si’lura had been denizens of the deep glade 
for as long as the forest had lived, as much its caretakers as the nyphai had 
been for Lok’ai’hera.
Blind and deaf to their presence, she had been attacked from above. Something 
large had leaped from the branches and clubbed her to the ground. A single cry 
of surprise was all she had managed before she blacked out. Moments later, she 
had woken into full night, gagged and bound to the tree.
She relented in her struggle against the ropes, taking deep breaths, pushing 
back her initial panic. She had friends nearby, and though her tongue was bound 
by the roll of cloth, she could still touch a fraction of the magick around her. 
She took another deep breath, letting her eyes drift half closed, and hummed 
from the core of her spirit. She married her soft notes to the thrum of 
treesong, merging the two.
Though the contact was weak, she called what she could: the smallest roots of 
the oak at her back. She felt the richness of the loam as the rootlets wormed to 
the surface. If she could wind the small limbs into her bonds and loosen a hand—
A growl sounded on her left, full of threat. The hum of power died in
I
her throat as a large white she-wolf stalked from the darker forest and revealed 
its white pelt and glowing amber eyes. Nee’lahn recognized the shape-shifter who 
had tracked them through the streets of Woodbine.
The wolf circled the tree once, rumbling a long growl. As it crossed back into 
sight, its flesh melted and the shape-shifter shimmered from its wolfskin, 
straightening and rising. A woman’s face replaced the wolf’s, but the amber eyes 
still glowed with a feral bit of the wild forest. She stood naked before 
Nee’lahn, unabashed, shoulders back. A long flow of white hair, straight and 
fluid, draped to the middle of her back.
“Attempt to free yourself again with your magick, and you’ll find your throat 
torn out before you can take two steps.”
Nee’lahn did not doubt the threat. She remained silent and stared back at the 
si’luran woman.
The shape-shifter’s eyes narrowed, studying her. “We have your companions 
surrounded,” she said quietly. “But before we attack, I want to know why you 
broke your vows to the forest, nyphai.” Nee’lahn’s brow crinkled with confusion.
A hand shot out toward her face. Nee’lahn cringed back, but the woman’s fingers 
settled to her gag. “I’ll loosen your tongue, but one note of magick from you 
and it’ll be your last.”
Knowing that any hope of freedom lay in cooperation, Nee’lahn nodded once in 
acknowledgment.
With a deft flick of fingers, the gag fell away. Nee’lahn coughed. “Wh-who are 
you?”
The si’luran’s back straightened. “My name is Thorn, prime tracker of the 
Freshling clan, third daughter of the elder’root. You’re to be brought before my 
father and the Council of Wishnu, to be judged for your atrocities against our 
forest.”
Nee’lahn was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Thorn snarled. “Nothing happens in the Reaches that is beyond the eyes of the 
si’lura. We have been watching you, nyphai, since you first were reborn here in 
our forests.”
Nee’lahn could not hide her shock. Over a winter ago, she had used the magick of 
the great forest to pull her spirit from its resting place inside a black acorn 
and birth her body anew. She’d had no idea that the si’luran people were aware 
of her.
“We watched you and your companions last winter, leaving a path of destruction.”
“We destroyed nothing. We sought to mend the Northwall and fend off the Grim 
wraiths who harried the edges of the forest.”
“You brought down the Stone of Tor,” Thorn spat back. “A place sacred to the 
si’luran people.”
Nee’lahn was stunned. She remembered the crash of the pinnacle of stone. While 
imprisoned in a wagon headed to Castle Mryl, she had felt the rending of the 
forest and the resultant flooding as the toppled peak dammed up rivers and 
streams. A good portion of the Western Reaches had been destroyed that day. “The 
Grim had to be stopped,” she offered weakly.
Thorn’s eyes flashed with ire. “The results of your actions were a thousandfold 
worse than any threat from the Grim.” Nee’lahn remained silent.
“The forest gave you life, and you repaid it with death.”
“You don’t understand—”
“And now Moon Lake,” the shape-shifter continued, ignoring her protest as she 
stalked back and forth. “Hundreds of my people were slain—but you walked out 
unscathed. Word spread quickly through the si’lura, one mind speaking to 
another. We recognized you. Again you walk our forests and leave a wake of 
devastation.” Fiery rage entered her voice. “But no more!”
Nee’lahn listened, stunned at the accusation. But a small part of her understood 
this one’s fury. This was their home. They knew nothing of the greater war 
beyond the woods. Isolated from the world at large, all the si’lura saw were 
great swaths of their homeland forests destroyed, and at each instance, the same 
person had been present.
Nee’lahn stared into the angry eyes of the other and recognized the true face of 
those caught in the battle of magicks. All these folk saw of the small victories 
against the Dark Lord was the destruction of their own homes, their own peoples. 
Here stood the folk who bore the brunt of the larger battle, forgotten and 
dismissed, never mentioned in tales or songs—those left behind.
Nee’lahn struggled to find words to encompass the pain, some reason to justify 
the loss of lands and people. But all she came up with were three heartfelt 
words. “I am sorry.”
Thorn stopped in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Nee’lahn. It was 
the suspicion of a wolf staring back at her.
Nee’lahn faced the accusation in the other’s gaze. “I am truly sorry for all you 
lost.”
A crinkle marred Thorn’s smooth brow. The fire dimmed in her eyes.
When next she spoke, it was a plea: “Why?”
Nee’lahn slowly shook her head. She had no answer to why some folks suffered so 
that others might live freely, why there was always a price in blood that had to 
be paid. “There is much guilt I and my companions bear. Over these last winters, 
we’ve stared too hard at the larger world and grown blind to those nearer at 
hand. Of that we are guilty. But there is a greater war that threatens not just 
portions of the Western Reaches, but the entire forest. It is a battle for the 
very heart of the Land.”
A shimmer of doubt passed over Thorn’s features.
Nee’lahn continued. “The world bleeds, not just here but across many lands. So 
while I’m sorry for the loss of your people and the wounded forest, I cannot 
apologize for the war we wage. Though the forest bleeds now, it will heal and 
grow stronger. But if the darkness claims it, nothing will survive.”
Thorn turned away from her words. “You speak from your heart; this I can tell. 
But the elder’root of the si’lura has called for you and your companions to 
stand before the Council of Wishnu. His call must be answered.”
Nee’lahn sighed. “I will not fight your father’s summons. And if I can explain 
to the others, neither will they.” She sensed it was time to face those who had 
been harmed in this war, to acknowledge their pain and sorrow. After Woodbine, 
she sensed Elena would agree.
“Then I’ll let you speak to your companions. But if any try to flee…” A growl of 
threat flowed from the woman.
Nee’lahn sensed the shaky balance achieved here. These lands belonged to the 
si’lura. Even with Elena’s magick, they would be hard-pressed to escape the 
forest. This summons to account for their actions here in the Western Reaches 
would have to be answered.
Thorn turned and loosened the vine ropes that bound the nyphai woman, but did 
not free her wrists. Nee’lahn stumbled away from the tree. Thorn caught her 
elbow to help her keep her feet.
Nee’lahn straightened. In the surrounding gloom, the flash of amber eyes 
flickered though the forest. She sensed the strained anger out there in the 
woods. It would be a hard wound to soothe.
She turned to Thorn to thank her for this small amount of trust.
The shape-shifter’s eyes remained wary, but the fury had dulled. In its wake, 
something else shone in her eyes: sorrow and loss. Clearly Thorn had lost 
someone close to her. Nee’lahn suspected it was this pain that had fueled the 
rage of a few moments ago.
Nee’lahn repeated her earlier words. “I am sorry.”
Thorn’s gaze hardened. “He should have been with you,” she mumbled under her 
breath as she guided Nee’lahn forward.
i
Her strange comment mystified Nee’lahn. “Who?” Thorn’s lip edged into a snarl. 
“Fardale. He was with your party last winter as you traveled north. I tracked 
him myself.”
Nee’lahn glanced to her. The two si’luran brothers had been banished from the 
forest due to their curse, ostracized by their own people. But she sensed 
something more personal in Thorn’s tones. “You knew Fardale?” The snarl 
deepened. “He was my mate.” Nee’lahn tripped over a stone.
Thorn continued speaking through clenched teeth. “But he was cursed after our 
first union and forced to leave.”
Nee’lahn sensed conflicting emotions warring in the si’luran woman: anger, pain, 
sorrow, and loss. And she now understood why it was Thorn who had hunted them 
all along. She saw the pained love in the other’s eyes. “He still lives,” 
Nee’lahn said softly. “He fights the darkness, as we do here.”
Thorn turned away. “It doesn’t matter.” But from the way her voice cracked, the 
exact opposite was the truth. It was her next comment, though, that stunned 
Nee’lahn into silence. “I had just hoped Fardale could meet his son.”
Elena stood with her back to the fire. The flames danced shadows among the 
trees, while hundreds of pairs of amber eyes stared silently upon them.
“We must find Nee’lahn,” Meric insisted. His silver hair shimmered, moving to 
the unseen winds of his magick.
“It is death to go out there now,” Er’ril warned. “Let us see how this plays 
out.”
“What are the shape-shifters waiting for?” Harlequin asked. He bore two daggers, 
flipping them end over end, catching the handles deftly each time. They flashed 
in the firelight.
The large trapper, Gunther, answered. “They seek to unman us. To make us run in 
fear.”
“We’ll not run,” Elena said calmly. She clenched a fist, building her magick to 
a deep crimson glow. Wit’ch fire in her right hand, coldfire in her left. She 
kept her fingers tight around the rose-carved handle of her silver dagger, ready 
to bloody her hands and unleash the magick pent inside. The wild chorus sang in 
her heart as she touched that part of her that was Cho, a being of unfathomable 
nature.
Bryanna gasped, staring wide-eyed at Elena’s hands. “What manner of demon are 
you?”
Elena glanced to her face. “I am as much a woman as you.” She held up her hand. 
“Like the shape-shifters out there, I simply bear a unique gift.”
“Do not listen to her,” a voice said coldly behind them. “She’s a wit’ch.” It 
was Greshym. The darkmage sat beside the fire, his elbows bound behind him. 
“She’ll kill you all before this night is over.”
Joach cracked Greshym a blow to the side of the head with his staff.
Er’ril stepped toward him. “Speak your lies again and I’ll remove your tongue.”
Bryanna frowned at Elena. “Wit’ch?”
Elena sensed the suspicion growing around her. One of the other trappers touched 
his forehead with his thumb in a warding against evil.
“I bear magick,” she said. “But in my heart, I am a woman like any other. I—”
“So you are a wit’ch!” Gunther blustered, his face growing as red as his beard. 
“A woman who bears magick! You admit it!”
Tensions rose around the fire. Gazes shifted between the si’luran army in the 
woods and the strife within the camp.
Amidst this strain, Harlequin suddenly laughed loudly, a bright sound 
accompanied by the jingling of bells. Eyes turned to him. “All of you strapping 
forest men frightened of this little slip of a woman,” the small man scoffed. 
“So what if Elena has a bit of magick? Don’t all women?” He eyed Bryanna up and 
down. “Something tells me a pretty lass like you has turned a man or two stone 
hard with nothing more than a smile and a wink. That’s what I call true magick!” 
The small man’s bells rang with amusement.
Gunther growled at the implication.
“You’re not helping, Harlequin,” Meric warned.
“I will not suffer a wit’ch in my camp,” Gunther grumbled. “I’ll throw the lot 
of you to the shape-shifters.”
Bryanna stepped forward. “Enough, Brother.”
He opened his mouth again, but a glare from his sister silenced him.
“I sense no evil from her,” Bryanna insisted, “only concern for their lost 
friend.” She turned to Elena. “Once this matter with the shape-shifters is 
finished, I would know more of these powers of yours.”
Elena nodded gratefully. “It is a long story.”
Bryanna turned to the forest, directing her arrow outward. “Then if we survive 
this night, I’d like to hear it.”
“I give you my word.”
One of the trappers who stood nearest the woods suddenly stumbled closer to the 
fires. “Someone comes!”
Elena turned her full attention back to the forest. The legion of amber eyes 
remained steady, but the distinct sound of crunching leaves and the shuffle of 
steps sounded. Sword tips moved in the direction of the noise.
Two dark shapes became distinct from the deeper gloom. One figure bore the amber 
eyes of the si’lura. The pair stopped just beyond the reach of the firelight.
“Who’s there?” Gunther called out, stepping forward. “What do you want?”
A voice called back. “It is I… Nee’lahn!” Meric gasped with relief.
Gunther glanced back to their party. Er’ril nodded his confirmation and moved to 
join the trapper. Elena followed him.
The two figures in the woods continued forward again. Elena saw with relief that 
it was indeed their friend. Nee’lahn was paler than usual and a trail of dried 
blood marred her forehead.
Meric hurried to her side. Nee’lahn allowed herself to be pulled into his 
embrace. “You’re safe.” Elena met Nee’lahn’s gaze over the elv’in prince’s 
shoulder. Her eyes denied Meric’s words.
Firelight limned the second figure, reflecting from her snowy hair. There was a 
wildness about her that reminded Elena of Fardale. She stood straight and 
unafraid before so many blades.
“Thorn,” Bryanna whispered with shock, naming this shape-shifter. “You know 
her?” Elena asked, raising an eyebrow. The trapper woman nodded. “She sold us 
the black stallion.” The shape-shifter turned her amber eyes toward them. “The 
stallion was bait,” she said simply, crossing her arms. “What do you mean?” 
Elena asked.
Pulling from Meric’s arms, Nee’lahn answered. “The si’lura captured Rorshaf 
after the destruction of the Stone of Tor.”
Thorn nodded and spoke coldly. “We searched the stallion’s packs for any clue as 
to why a nyphai and her companions would wreak such havoc to our forests. We 
discovered nothing of use, but kept the horse in case it was needed again.”
“Then the si’lura heard of the devastation around Moon Lake,” Nee’lahn 
explained. “They planted Rorshaf in Woodbine, the closest village to the blasted 
region. They hoped whoever was to blame for the lake’s destruction would end up 
there and perhaps recognize the horse, linking the two events.”
“But in the end, the horse was not needed.” Thorn glanced to Nee’lahn. “While 
spying in the town, I scented someone familiar.”
Nee’lahn faced the others. “They hold us to blame for the destruction both here 
and up north.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Er’ril said.
Elena touched his arm. “These are their lands, Er’ril.” She faced Thorn, 
recognizing the hundreds of eyes watching from the wood. “What would you have of 
us?”
“The elder’root of our clan has called for you to stand before our council and 
explain yourselves. His summons will not be disobeyed.”
“We don’t have time,” Er’ril argued. “We’ve a rendezvous.”
Nee’lahn moved closer to them. “Calm yourself, plainsman. The Council of Wishnu 
meets just two days from here in the direction of the mountains. It would 
require no more than a single day to plead our case, and with the cooperation of 
the si’lura, we could make up this extra time.”
“But we did nothing wrong,” Er’ril said.
Nee’lahn raised one eyebrow. “Didn’t we?”
Elena found Thorn’s gaze on her. The shape-shifter stood proud, her face 
unreadable, but in her eyes, a font of sorrow shone.
“We’ll go with them,” Elena said finally, cutting into the dispute.
Er’ril frowned and motioned her aside. “We know little about these 
shape-shifters. Over the centuries, they’ve had little contact with outsiders.”
“But they’re also a people of Alasea, as much as any man. Their blood has been 
spilled to protect these lands, willingly or not. They deserve an explanation 
for the price they’ve paid and may yet pay again. These are their lands. I will 
not burn a path through them now for the sake of expediency.”
Er’ril stared at her, his storm-gray eyes judging her resolve.
A shadow of a smile came unbidden to her lips as she read the deep lines of 
Er’ril’s brow. He already agreed with her, but the guardian in him feared for 
her. She reached a hand to smooth those worried creases from the corner of his 
lips with the caress of her thumb.
He covered her hand with his own. “Elena…” he whispered with a brush of breath.
She stared into his eyes. “You say we don’t know these people. But we know 
Fardale, even Mogweed. At their core, they are a noble and just people.”
“Fardale maybe,” he grumbled, “but Mogweed is cut from a different cloth.”
“I think you just need to look a little deeper into that one’s heart. In many 
ways, he’s more sensitive than his brother.”
I
“If you say so…” Er’ril sounded little convinced, but he pulled her hand from 
his cheek and kissed her palm. The warmth of his lips threatened to melt the 
strength from her legs.
“I do,” she said, and reluctantly pulled her hand away, closing her fingers 
around the warmth of his touch, trying to trap this other magick within her 
heart.
“So we go with the shape-shifters?” he asked.
She nodded. “It is time we face the path we’ve left behind us.” She glanced to 
those gathered here, old companions and new. Her eyes found Thorn’s. “If we are 
to forge a future for these lands, we must not neglect our past.”
Er’ril circled her with his arm. “But can we survive the present?” She leaned 
into him. “We can together.”
Greshym rocked with the motion of the horse, exhausted and saddle sore. Daybreak 
neared. They had ridden all night. With the si’luran army as protectors, there 
was nothing to fear in the dark wood.
They had set out into the nighttime forest, heading off the main trail. Greshym 
was quickly lost without his magick senses, and from the way Er’ril kept 
searching the stars and the woods around him, it seemed the plainsman fared no 
better.
At first, there had been furtive whispers among the party. He heard snatches of 
familiar stories as Elena related her coming to power to Bryanna. He had 
listened with half an ear while pretending to drowse. Though he knew most of the 
story, some startling bits filled in gaps in his own knowledge. One point 
particularly intrigued him: She mentioned something about the ebon’stone 
transforming into heartstone.
He pondered this throughout the night. He had never heard of such a property. He 
sensed a key to power lay in the answer to this mystery.
Eventually, the entire party had grown quiet, too tired to speak. Only the 
plodding of the horses accompanied their progress. The shape-shifters out in the 
woods moved with uncanny stealth, lost in the gloom. But the party knew their 
captors were still out there, for the flash of amber eyes flickered periodically 
around them from the wood.
Greshym studied the approaching dawn. They were to rest with the rising sun and 
set out again by midday. The shape-shifter named Thorn had said they’d reach the 
si’luran gathering place by nightfall.
Greshym felt a noose growing ever tighter around his neck. The forest was thick 
with si’luran shape-shifters, and with each heavy plod of his horse’s hoof, he 
was one step closer to where Shorkan waited beyond the mountains. He had enemies 
on all sides.
He reached to the tiny bit of magick remaining in his heart. It was nothing but 
the smallest drop, not even enough to loosen his bonds to relieve the chafing of 
the ropes. But it did allow him to sense a familiar heartbeat deep in the woods, 
a heart that had been bound to him before his magick had been evaporated. He 
sent a silent message to this other, encouraging his continued allegiance.
Follow, Rufyh. Follow and stay hidden.
Through his connection, he felt the tiniest thrill of response.
Greshym sighed. For now, it was all he could do. The stump gnome kept pace with 
their party, trailing by a full league so as not to be caught. At least Rukh had 
managed to collect the bone staff Greshym had abandoned in the mud beside Moon 
Lake. The stave was empty of any magick, but like the stump gnome, it was a tool 
that could prove useful.
Narrowing his eyes, Greshym studied one other resource here, useless now, but 
full of possibility.
He watched Joach hanging in his saddle, drowsing, half asleep.
As the day brightened, so did Greshym’s hopes. A plan twisted slowly into place 
in his head. Only two things were necessary: patience… and a fair amount of 
blood.
i
Elena soaked her feet in the cool waters of a stream, her boots on a mossy 
boulder beside her. She stretched a cramp in her back. They had traveled all the 
prior night and, after a short rest, a good portion of the day. She leaned back 
and stared at the sun shining through the branches. A fresh breeze swept along 
the stream, lifting the muggy air trapped under the dense canopy. Elena drew a 
deep breath. Summer was indeed upon them, but evening neared; the steaming sun 
would soon give way to the cool moon.
The crunch of boots drew her attention as Joach limped toward her, a grimace of 
pain on his face.
Elena scooted to the side and patted a seat. “Come soak. It feels wonderful.”
Joach dropped to her side like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “I don’t 
know if I could get my boots off—my ankles have swollen tight inside them.” He 
shoved his feet, boots and all, into the water.
Elena patted her brother’s gloved fingers, a small gesture of family. But he 
didn’t seem to notice. He simply stared at the sun-dappled waters, his shoulders 
slumped with exhaustion.
“I used to ride the orchards all day,” he mumbled. “And still come home and run 
my errands.”
“Once this is over, we’ll find a way to reverse the spell. I promise,” she said.
But he seemed as deaf to her words as to her touch. “I can’t stand even looking 
at him, knowing it’s my own youth mocking me.”
Elena glanced to Joach’s hand. His fingers, once strong from picking apples and 
weeding the orchard, were now just bone and withered skin under the thin riding 
glove. But as she listened to her brother, she sensed that more was stolen from 
Joach than just youth. A good portion of his spirit and heart had vanished, too.
He slipped his hand to the staff across his knees; the foul thing now gave him 
more solace than his own flesh and blood. She studied the length of petrified 
gray wood, impregnated with jaundiced bits of crystal. She had put off a certain 
talk long enough. “Joach,” she began, “what have you done to your staff?”
His eyes narrowed as he turned to her. “What do you mean?”
Elena recalled the night of the last full moon, when they had all been 
transported here. In the courtyard, she had seen Joach’s staff aflame with 
elemental energies. But of more concern were the glowing strands of power that 
had linked her brother to the weapon. “I see you always wear a glove.”
“So? It helps my grip. I have little strength anymore.”
She knew Joach well enough to tell when he was lying. “I saw how you were linked 
to the staff,” she said. “It was like when I bonded you to the poi’wood staff 
aboard the Pale Stallion. You’ve created a blood weapon, tied your spirit to the 
wood.”
He remained silent for several long breaths. When he spoke, it was a strained 
whisper. “I have lost everything. My magic is all I have left, my only hope. I 
linked myself to it so I could wield it better.”
“Joach…” Warning filled her voice. “Er’ril told me how such weapons, forged in 
blood and spirit, can become living things without conscience or mercy. Blood 
weapons can grow to corrupt their wielders.”
Joach shook his head. “I won’t let that happen. I only need the staff long 
enough to break this curse upon me. After that, I’ll burn the foul thing 
myself.” He lifted an arm and shook back his riding cloak to reveal his stumped 
wrist. “But before that happens, let me show you what it’s capable of 
achieving.”
Light shimmered over the end of his arm; then a hand bloomed into existence, 
appearing out of nothing. Elena stared in shock as he flexed the new fingers. 
The hand appeared as real as his other. The only difference was this one was 
smooth and unlined, a conjure of youth.
Joach picked up a rock, then lobbed it downstream. The splash dislodged a few 
frogs, sending them plopping into the creek. He held up his hand. “It’s a dream 
sculpted into reality.”
It took half a breath for Elena to find her voice. “Joach, you shouldn’t have 
risked such dangerous magick.”
“I had to.” Bitterness lay thick on his tongue. “I’ve lost too much.” i
“But forging yourself into a blood weapon is not the answer. Why did you do 
this? Do you hope to conjure yourself a new body?”
Joach scowled. “That would be mere illusion. I’d still be aged and bent-backed 
behind the glamor.”
“Then why? I said before, we’ll find a way to regain your youth. I’m sure—
“It’s not just my youth,” he interrupted. Tears misted his eyes. His face 
tightened as he held back a deeper emotion. He finally spoke in a strained sob. 
“It’s Kesla…”
Elena sensed that there were words her brother had put off speaking.
She remained silent. “She was so beautiful.”
“I remember.”
“But it was more. The way she laughed so brightly. The heat of her touch, as if 
she always walked under the desert sun. And her eyes… They were the violet of a 
bottomless moonlit oasis.”
“You loved her.”
A tear rolled down his cheek. “But she was nothing.” Elena frowned at the sudden 
bitterness of his words. “Nothing but a figment.” He lifted his conjured hand 
and waved it away, casting it back to dream. He lowered his stump and turned 
again to his staff. “No more real than my hand.”
Elena allowed him a quiet moment, then spoke firmly. “You’re wrong. She wasn’t 
mere dream. She lived, like any woman lives.” Joach shook his head, turning away 
and refusing to hear her. “Who can say where any of us comes from?” she 
continued. “When our flesh is born of man and a woman, how does our spirit 
infuse our bodies? Or do you think we’re all just so much clay?”
“Of course not.”
“I met Kesla. She was not just sand and dream. She had as much spirit as any of 
us. And if her spirit was real, then so was she, no matter how she was born.”
He sighed, clearly unsure.
Elena reached and grabbed his real hand, placing it between her two palms. “You 
loved her. Kesla could not have touched your spirit unless she was more than 
dream, unless she had the true spirit of life.”
He pulled his hand away. “But does it matter anymore? She’s gone.” Elena spoke 
softly. “As long as you remember her, her spirit will live through you.”
Joach sagged. “How long will that last? With this aged body…” He shook his head.
She patted his knee. “We’ll find a way through this, together.”
He showed no response to her words, sinking again into his private thoughts.
Voices rose in argument nearby. Elena glanced over a shoulder. Er’ril marched 
with Harlequin toward them. She pulled her feet from the stream and grabbed her 
boots. Standing, she touched Joach on the shoulder.
He mumbled under his breath. “Go. I’m fine.”
She heard the he behind his words, but time would have to heal his heart. She 
turned to the others and crossed quickly in their direction, cutting them off. 
She did not want Joach disturbed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Er’ril’s face was flushed with anger. “Harlequin snuck off and spied upon Thorn 
and her people.” He glared down at the small man. “He was caught.”
Harlequin shrugged. “It’s hard to sneak up on a people with all the senses of 
the forest’s creatures.”
“I warned you against aggravating them.” Er’ril clenched a fist.
Harlequin rolled his eyes. “I don’t remember bending my knee to you, plainsman. 
It’s my hide, too, that’s at risk here; I have the right to protect it as I see 
fit.”
Elena held up a hand. “What happened after you were caught?” Harlequin cast 
daggers with his eyes at Er’ril. “Nothing. They sent me back with my tail 
tucked, that’s all.”
Er’ril scowled. “Thorn was furious. She was shaking with anger.”
“That’s the way she always looks,” Harlequin mumbled. “What did she say?”
Er’ril sighed. “Nothing. She just strode back into the wood.” Harlequin shrugged 
his arms with a jingle of bells. “So no harm done.”
“You don’t know that,” Er’ril spat back. “The si’lura are angry already. 
Provoking them—”
“I didn’t provoke them. I just watched them.”
“Enough,” Elena declared. “What’s done is done. Harlequin, in the future, I’d 
ask you to respect my liegeman’s wishes. He speaks with my authority. And as I 
recall, you did bend your knee to me.”
The small man bowed his head. “Yes, milady.”
Er’ril crossed his arms.
Elena turned to him. “And Er’ril, when compared to the destruction of
I
their forest home, I doubt Harlequin’s spying will significantly slant their 
animosity one way or the other. And if he had learned anything of value—“
“He didn’t,” Er’ril interrupted.
“I never said that,” Harlequin said innocently.
Both Elena and Er’ril focused on the man. “You heard something?”
Elena asked.
“It wasn’t much. They speak so much through their eyes, but Thorn was still in 
her woman’s shape. And a comely shape, she has—that long white hair, the shape 
of her bare backside. I wouldn’t mind—”
“Get on with it,” Er’ril shouted.
Harlequin lifted an eyebrow. “What? Am I not allowed to appreciate the 
shape-shifting artistry of our captor?”
Er’ril glowered, his ruddy face growing darker.
“Please go on,” Elena said.
Harlequin straightened the fall of his motley jacket. “As I was saying before 
being interrupted, Thorn still wore her womanly form. I guess some messages 
could not be readily exchanged from woman to deer. The antlered fellow needed 
plainer speech.”
“What did she tell him?” Er’ril asked.
“She instructed our cloven-hoofed shape-shifter to run ahead and alert the 
council to our approach—and to let her father—the elder’root— know that neither 
Mogweed nor Fardale were with us.”
“Mogweed and Fardale?” Er’ril crinkled his brow. “What do they have to do with 
any of this?”
“That’s the strange part. She told her messenger to inform her father that, with 
the brothers missing, any hope of saving the forest’s root was doomed.”
Elena crinkled her brow. “Saving the forest’s root?” She stared at the tall 
trees around her. Since they had left the trails, the woods had grown denser, 
thicker, older. The very air was heavy with the odor of loam and scent of green 
life. Nothing seemed amiss. And if something had been, Nee’lahn would surely 
have sensed it.
“What do Fardale and Mogweed have to do with any of this?” Er’ril asked.
Harlequin shrugged. “That’s all I learned before being spotted.”
“It makes no sense,” Elena said.
“Maybe not, but—” Harlequin glanced over a shoulder, then dropped his voice. 
“—it does suggest that these si’lura have intentions that go beyond what they 
speak aloud. Secrets meant only for their own people.
And if those shape-shifting brothers are somehow key to this…“ Harlequin raised 
an eyebrow.
Elena frowned. “I don’t understand the concern.”
Er’ril’s face grew grim. “To keep their secret, the si’lura might not let us 
go.”
“They’d imprison us?”
“If we’re lucky,” Harlequin said. “There are more permanent ways of silencing 
us.”
Elena’s eyes widened.
Er’ril stared out at the shadowy woods, where a dark army waited. “We’d best 
tread lightly from here.”
Trailing the others, Meric rode beside Nee’lahn through the dark forest. Night 
had fallen, and the moon had yet to rise. A single torch lit the way under the 
arched bower, carried by Thorn atop one of the trappers’ horses. The forest 
around them had grown taller, spearing skyward in a tangle of branches. The 
stars were barely visible.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Nee’lahn whispered, drawing him back from the 
skies. “What an ancient growth of forest. Perhaps as old as all the Western 
Reaches. Some of these trees are found nowhere else in the world.” She pointed 
to a tree with a trunk that rose in a straight spiral, throwing out branches at 
regular intervals. “That’s a giant gnarl. They were thought to have vanished 
ages ago, but here one grows.”
“I’ve seen old-growth forests like this before,” Bryanna intruded, riding on the 
other side of Nee’lahn. She glanced behind them, at the empty path. Her voice 
filled with dread. “They dot the Reaches, but the si’lura guard such places. 
Trappers know better than to enter these lands. In the past, loggers have 
attempted to plunder the rich woods, but all who tried were slain by the 
shape-shifters. It is death to walk these lands.”
Meric kept one hand on his reins and another on the hilt of his slender sword, 
but the cold touch of steel offered no reassurance. The si’lura had not bothered 
to take any of their weapons—which disturbed him more than if their captors had 
stripped them all bare.
“This grove here is one of the largest I’ve ever seen,” Bryanna said in hushed 
tones. “It must stretch a full league in all directions.”
“And it stretches even farther under the soil,” Nee’lahn said, wonder still 
shining in her words. “The ancient woodsong here echoes up from depths beyond 
anything I’ve heard. It rivals Lok’ai’hera and grows richer with each step. It 
must reach the core of the world itself.”
She was silent for a long moment, then spoke in heartfelt tones. “How I wish 
Rodricko could see this, hear this song.”
Frowning, Meric appreciated none of her wonder. Shadows flowed to either side. 
Within this dark tide, flashes of amber revealed the continued presence of the 
army around them.
From up ahead, voices suddenly rose. Meric swung his attention forward. Their 
guide’s torch had stopped at the bottom of a tall, forested hill. Horses and men 
gathered around the torch; then one broke away, traveling down the line as 
Harlequin trotted his horse back to them. “We’ve reached the council site,” he 
said, pointing back to the hill. “Beyond the rise. We’re to walk from here.”
“Walk?”
Harlequin nodded, his gold eyes shining angrily. “We’re to leave our gear with 
our mounts, including weapons. If anyone is caught with a blade at the council 
gathering, they will be slain upon the spot.” Meric gripped his sword hilt more 
tightly.
Harlequin must have noticed his motion. “Thorn says the valley beyond is sacred 
ground, and none must walk it armed.”
Meric scowled and released his grip. He slid from his saddle, bristling with 
elemental energy. They might take his blade, but he was not going defenseless. 
He helped Nee’lahn down as the trappers also dismounted. Everyone loosened 
swords, axes, and bows from their bodies, cinching them to their mounts. Meric 
lashed his sword to his saddle.
Nearby, Harlequin remained on his horse. “You’re also supposed to leave your 
boots here and walk the hill barefoot.”
“What?” Meric asked, shocked by the strange request.
“Like Thorn said… sacred ground.” Harlequin shrugged. “These are their rules, 
not mine.” He kicked each of his own boots from his feet with deft moves, 
catching them in each hand, then leaped from his own saddle.
“We should respect their wishes,” Nee’lahn said, stepping to a boulder to sit.
Meric grumbled under his breath but obeyed. Still standing, he used the toe of 
one boot to hold the other’s heel. He pulled his foot free and placed it down. 
As his foot touched the soil, he suddenly felt as if someone had mounted a pack 
full of stones on his back. His balance teetered. Swinging his arms, he half 
stumbled, hopping back onto his booted foot. Standing on the one boot, the 
sudden weight lifted from his shoulders.
“Meric?” Nee’lahn asked, noticing his dance.
“I’m all right. Just dizzy from the long ride, I guess.” He placed his foot back 
down, and the weight suddenly crashed upon his shoulders again. He grunted but 
kept his balance this time.
With concern on her face, Nee’lahn rose. But as she stood, she gasped and 
clutched at her chest.
“Nee’lahn!” He stepped to her, struggling under the weight.
She stared up at him, her face stricken. The glow of her skin had faded. Her 
honey-colored hair had become simple straw, her skin now more ashen than snowy 
white. It was as if her vitality had been drained away. “I… I can’t hear 
woodsong anymore,” she cried softly.
Meric sought to combat the extra weight on his shoulders by calling up his 
elemental magick, but he found the well of wind energy impossible to touch, 
though he sensed it was still there. He turned to the others around them. They 
stared at the pair with wrinkled brows.
“What’s wrong?” Harlequin asked.
Meric had a suspicion. He lifted his foot from the ground, balancing on his one 
boot. He lifted an arm, and crackles of energy danced among his ringers. He 
again felt light on his feet. The power of wind and air was his again.
Then he brought his bare foot back down. As it touched the soil, the energy 
cascading about his fingers snuffed out, and the weight returned to his 
shoulders. “The land here… it somehow cuts us off from our elemental powers.”
Nee’lahn had regained her composure, her eyes widening. “Meric is right.”
“No wonder they want us to walk barefoot onto their sacred lands,” Harlequin 
said. “No magick.”
“They mean to take all our defenses away,” Meric said. He stood on the strange 
soil. Was this what it felt to walk as an ordinary man? He took a few steps, 
struggling under the weight.
Nee’lahn joined him, reaching out with a hand. He took it, each seeking solace 
in another who could understand this plight.
“I’ve never felt like this,” she whispered. “I can feel the vigor of root and 
loam in my heart, but I can’t bring it forth into my blood.”
“I know. It’s like my magick is locked in a vault, and I’ve lost the key.”
A call arose from up ahead. “We’re being summoned,” Harlequin said.
Meric spotted the torch borne by Thorn. Their guide had started up the slope. 
They were on the move again.
With a shudder, he shook out of his other boot. Once barefoot, Meric and 
Nee’lahn followed, hand in hand.
Reaching the foot of the hill, Meric spied Joach without his staff, half carried 
between Elena and Er’ril. A step behind them, Gunther climbed with Greshym 
locked in one of his meaty paws. The darkmage’s wrists had been bound behind his 
back.
Meric began the long climb, struggling under the extra weight. He had never 
imagined how much his magick had been part of his body. Without it, the pull of 
the world upon his limbs seemed to have grown tenfold.
Nee’lahn breathed hard, as if trying to draw strength from the air. “I cannot 
hear even the faintest whisper of treesong. A moment ago, it filled the entire 
world. How could I be so deaf to it now?”
“It’s the land here. It must dampen our elemental abilities, as Cho did to 
Greshym’s magick.”
“I’ve never heard of such an effect.”
Meric nodded to the glowing torch. “It seems the si’lura are good at keeping 
their secrets.”
Further talk was silenced by the climb. It took all their efforts to plant one 
foot in front of the other. Soon they lagged behind the others. The faint light 
from the torch vanished as Thorn crested the hill and continued over the rise. 
The woods grew darker around them. Only the moon, shining its gibbous face down 
upon them, lit their way.
“Only a little farther,” Meric muttered. Nee’lahn nodded. Panting and sweating 
in the cool air, the pair followed the last of their party over the hill. At 
last, Meric saw what lay beyond.
“Sweet Mother,” he exhaled. From the height, he could see leagues ahead. It 
wasn’t a hill they had been climbing, but the lip of a gigantic bowl. Spread 
before them lay an oval valley, forested with trees that made the giants from 
before seem like mere twigs. Their branches were decorated with lanterns, as if 
the stars had fallen from the skies and scattered in the deep forest here. 
Larger fires also dotted the forest floor, shining up from below.
Nee’lahn gripped Meric’s upper arm, fingers digging deep. “It cannot be! The 
trees…”
Meric shook his head. “I don’t recognize them.”
“How could you?” she mumbled, falling to her knees despite the grip on his arm. 
“They are the Old Ones.”
He knelt beside her and studied the closest specimen. It rose from the valley 
floor and climbed high above the rim. Its bark was white, like a birch, but each 
wide leaf was the color of burnt copper, as if autumn had come early to this 
summer valley.
Nee’lahn glanced at him, tears on her cheek. “The Old Ones come
I
from before even the koa’kona, from before our two peoples walked the world. It 
is from the Old Ones that all other trees descend.“ A sob escaped her. ”We 
thought them gone, dead for countless centuries. During the time of the nyphai, 
all that remained of these ancients were a few isolated stumps, hollow and dead, 
lost in various deep forests. A grove such as this cannot exist.“ She implored 
him with his eyes. ”The nyphai would have known!“
Meric stared out at the grove. “Perhaps not if they grew from this loam. As you 
said yourself, here you are deaf to any treesong. Maybe the Land itself hides 
this grove.”
“But why?” she asked, staring again at the forest.
He shook his head. “The si’lura may know.”
Nee’lahn pulled herself to her feet. “I must find out. I must commune with these 
ancients.”
Meric helped her down the slope, trailing in the footprints of the others. Only 
now did he notice the shapes moving among the fires below. He had thought the 
number of shape-shifters that had accompanied them was an army, but below was a 
gathering a hundredfold larger. As he worked down the trail into the ancient 
valley, he stared at those around him. Animals of every ilk moved through the 
woods: lumbering bears, fleet deer, loping wolves, slinking woodland cats. 
Winged creatures swooped and dove: eagles, rocs, giant golden hawks. But these 
beasts were but a small fraction of the gathering. Most denizens of this grove 
wore a blended mix of features.
A small boy ran past their trail. Instead of hair, he bore a crown of feathers 
and trailed a long, furred tail. He paused, staring wide-eyed at the strangers, 
amber eyes aglow.
“Finch!” a woman called sharply. She stepped from around a noosegill bush. She 
was slender and tall, her bare skin covered with a sleek pelt of striped 
black-and-white fur. “Get away from these strangers.”
The boy cocked his head like a bird, then glanced to his elder. His eyes flared 
brighter as he silently communicated.
“Don’t argue with me. Get to our fire!” She pointed an arm.
The boy dashed off into the woods, his tail a flag behind him. The woman studied 
them through narrowed lids, then spun faster than an eye could follow, leaping 
away after her child.
Meric lost her among the trees and bushes. But around him, a kaleidoscope of 
shapes and configurations kept them company. Most seemed drawn by curiosity, but 
other faces lit with enmity and wariness.
Meric increased his pace, closing the distance with their own group, where 
Bryanna watched the spectacle with her mouth hanging open. “I never imagined 
there were so many. These must be the si’lura from this entire region, maybe 
from all the Western Reaches.”
Meric studied the spread of fires throughout the valley. The trapper woman could 
be correct.
Ahead, Elena and Er’ril carried Joach between them, while Harlequin and Gunther 
flanked the darkmage Greshym. Thorn called for a stop. “Wait here. I must go 
forward alone to announce your presence.” She disappeared ahead.
Elena glanced to Meric and Nee’lahn. “Joach thinks the ground here saps his 
elemental strength, but he’s so exhausted that he’s not sure.”
“Your brother is correct,” Nee’lahn said. “We’re cut off from our magick.”
“We’ve entered a nexus.” Greshym spoke casually, but Meric sensed a thread of 
surprise in the other’s voice. “What’s a nexus?” Elena asked. Greshym shrugged. 
Gunther shook him. “Answer the lass.”
Greshym glanced to his large, bearded companion. “Gunther, being a trapper, I 
imagine you’ve a lodestone to find your way through these endless woods. May I 
see it?”
The man frowned, but his sister nodded to him. With a grumble, he reached into a 
pocket of his jerkin and pulled out a satchel. He dumped its contents onto his 
palm: a small bowl and a chunk of cork with an imbedded sliver of lodestone.
“Lodestone is tuned to the world’s energy,” Greshym explained. “Used with skill, 
it will point toward true north.”
“So?” Gunther said, speaking all their thoughts. Greshym nodded to the large 
man’s hand. “Go ahead and try.” The big man snarled, but again his sister 
encouraged him. “Do as he asks, Gunther.”
The trapper dropped to one knee, settled the bowl, then removed a leather water 
flask from his hip. He filled the bowl, then floated the cork atop the water’s 
surface.
Meric leaned closer. The cork and lodestone spun slightly as if trying to center 
on true north, but instead of settling into position, it continued to spin, 
faster and faster. It became a blur in the center of the cup, water sloshing 
from the sides.
“A nexus,” Greshym said. “Here the Land’s energies are in flux. As with the 
lodestone, an elemental will be unable to align himself here.” He nodded to 
Meric and Nee’lahn. “You haven’t lost your powers. You simply can’t tune 
yourself to the Land’s energy.”
Meric watched the lodestone spin.
From up ahead, music suddenly welled out into the night. Everyone turned to 
look. Under the spread of branches, flutes and reeds piped hauntingly, 
accompanied by the beat of stretched leather and hollow wood. Around them, the 
babble and murmurs of those gathered in the valley grew hushed, and as the 
silence grew, the music seemed to swell louder.
Thorn strode toward them, no longer bearing her torch. “The council awaits,” she 
announced, and waved for them to follow.
Gunther packed his lodestone away, and they all marched after their guide. 
Nee’lahn slipped her hand into Meric’s. As they walked, she stared out at the 
old forest. “A nexus… and here stand the Old Ones.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
Her eyes squinted, and she shook her head.
Meric sensed she was holding something back, but he also knew better than to 
press her. She needed time to ponder something in her own heart. So he continued 
in silence.
With each step, the music quickened around them. Horns joined the flutes, deep 
and mournful, while the drums continued to pound solemnly. Thorn’s pace became 
more brisk.
Er’ril helped Joach along. “I don’t like this. We could be walking into a trap.”
“Trap or not,” Harlequin said, “it seems we’ve no choice but to run headlong 
into it.”
Meric glanced behind him. Thousands of amber eyes stared in their direction—not 
at them, but toward where they marched.
“The forest opens ahead,” Nee’lahn said.
Meric swung his attention around. Thorn led the way under an arch of branches. 
Beyond the threshold, moonlight shone brighter, unimpeded by the usual thick 
canopy. Bathed in silver, a wide meadow opened, gently sloping down from the 
ring of forest around them.
Meric studied the open glade.
Before them, a gentle slope of grass descended toward a wide central pool. An 
island in its center humped from the dark waters, and from this small spit of 
land, one of the largest Old Ones grew. Its trunk was twice as thick as any of 
the other giants, its branches a crown of ivory and gold.
The group stared out at the sight, stunned. The hidden musicians had halted 
their playing at the appearance of their party. A deep silence pressed down upon 
the valley.
Below, at the foot of the giant tree, the pool’s waters were not still. They 
slowly churned, flowing in a continual swirl around the central island as if 
stirred from below.
Meric knew what he was seeing.
“The heart of the nexus,” Nee’lahn whispered beside him.
Er’ril had less interest in the pool and the giant tree than in the ring of folk 
around the water’s edge. A group of twenty men and women draped in simple white 
cloaks stood guard around the tree’s pool. Each wore a garland of coppery leaves 
in his or her hair.
“The Council of Wishnu,” Thorn intoned solemnly. She glanced to their party. 
“Come.”
Under the heavy silence, the group followed Thorn down the slope. Ahead the 
elders of the si’lura walked the edge of the pool to gather before it. Er’ril 
kept one eye on them and another on the surrounding forest. Though he spotted 
not a single pair of amber eyes out in the woods, he sensed the attention and 
focus of an entire people upon this meeting.
Er’ril passed Joach to Harlequin. Free, he motioned Elena to step ahead with 
him. It would be up to them to convince this council that the damage to their 
forest had been done to protect against a greater evil. But as he stared at the 
hard faces, he found no sympathy there.
Thorn stepped before a broad-shouldered man who towered over his brethren. She 
dropped to one knee. “Father.”
His face warmed ever so slightly. “Rise, Child. This night we will forgo 
formality.”
Thorn climbed to her feet. She turned to the others. “Father, these are the folk 
you’ve instructed my hunters to bring before you.”
The tall man stared at the assembled group. “I am the elder’root,” he said. 
“I’ve already been informed of who you are.” His eyes settled upon Elena with 
clear suspicion. “And I’ve heard about your claims of innocence, of how a 
greater battle beyond our forest has resulted in the recent bouts of 
devastation.”
Er’ril stepped forward. “What we claim is true.”
The man’s attention never diverted from Elena. “That will be judged this night.”
Beyond him, the waters of the central pool began to churn more vigorously, as if 
sensing the leader’s agitation. Er’ril caught a glimpse of something moving 
through those dark waters, but when he tried to focus on it, it vanished.
Elena moved to Er’ril’s side. She stood straight before the other’s hard gaze. 
“Ask us what you will. We will answer with full honesty. We wish to hide 
nothing. But first let me assure you that the destruction to your homelands was 
not out of malice to your people or these lands. At each instance, a greater 
menace was thwarted.”
The leader’s eyes flicked toward Greshym. “So we have heard.”
“If he’s heard so much, why are we here?” Harlequin mumbled behind them.
The small man’s whisper did not pass unnoticed. “You are here to prove what you 
speak,” the elder’root said. “And to answer other questions.”
Elena spoke again. “We will do all we can to help you understand our cause and 
purpose.”
The leader nodded. “Well spoken, lass. Then tell us what happened to Mogweed and 
Fardale.”
Elena glanced to Er’ril, the question catching her by surprise. Er’ril answered 
for her. “The twin brothers came to us frozen in their forms, one a wolf, the 
other a man.”
“This I know. It was I who banished them from our forests.”
Er’ril nodded. “They told us how they were sent from the forest because they 
could no longer shape-shift.”
The leader neither acknowledged nor denied his words. “And now? What has become 
of the brothers?”
Er’ril grimaced. “Through the magick of a healing snake’s poison, their two 
bodies have merged, fused into one form. Fardale rules the body during the day, 
Mogweed at night. But once again they are able to shift like true si’lura.”
The leader looked stricken, and the other members of the council began to 
murmur. Finally, the leader held up an arm, silencing them. “Is what you say the 
truth?”
Er’ril nodded once, standing straight-backed. “I swear on my very honor.”
The elder’root closed his eyes. “Then what we had hoped is lost forever.” The 
leader of the si’lura sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Your war has done more 
damage to our forest than mere drowned woods and blasted lakes. It has corrupted 
the hope of our entire people.” He turned to face the council. The members’ eyes 
glowed a richer amber as they communicated to one another, conferring, judging.
Thorn stepped to Er’ril’s side. “My father had placed too much hope upon Mogweed 
and Fardale.” Her words were bitter. “We’ve wasted over two winters on the words 
of a long-dead prophet.”
Er’ril faced the huntress. “Maybe it’s time you shared what you’ve kept hidden. 
Elena bears enough magick that she could have burned her way through your pack 
of hunters, but she came here because her heart aches for those innocents harmed 
in our war. She came to make amends, to explain, to hide nothing from your 
people.”
Elena had stepped to his side. Er’ril found his hand in hers. She squeezed his 
fingers.
He continued, letting his passion shine. “Fardale… even Mogweed… have proven 
themselves brave allies for our cause. If there is more we should know, more 
that could either help them or help us understand what’s happened to them, then 
you owe it to both them and us to explain.”
Thorn’s expression grew more pained with each word. Finally she could hold her 
tongue no longer. “Don’t you think I want to help them?” she demanded. “Fardale 
was my mate.” She turned away. “But my father had no choice. Only after they had 
left the forests, only after I was found to be with child, did my father tell me 
the true reason for the pair’s banishment.”
“Tell us,” Er’ril urged. Elena nodded at his side. Slowly the others gathered 
around, listening in, but keeping a respectful distance.
Thorn met Elena’s gaze, her eyes glimmering with tears. “The story starts in the 
distant past, when the forests of the Western Reaches were young. It is said 
that our people were born out of the Land itself, birthed to minister to this 
great forest.” She glanced over to the pool and the giant tree. “Our earliest 
stories say that the first of our people rose from this very pool. Born of 
water, our flesh flows, allowing us to share the forms of all the forest’s 
creatures.” The huntress stared out at the ring of woods. “This is a sacred 
place. These are the first trees to grow from these lands.”
“The Old Ones,” Nee’lahn whispered behind them. Thorn nodded. “From these trees, 
all others were born. The entire Western Reaches flowed out from this grove, as 
did our people. Our two lives are linked.”
“Are you saying you’re bonded to these trees as the nyphai are to their own?” 
Elena asked.
Thorn shook her head, glancing to Nee’lahn. “No, our linking is different.” 
Thorn stared back at the pool and the giant white-barked elder.
“Rather than one tree for one individual, our entire people are bonded to that 
sole tree. We are its children.”
A stunned silence spread through the group. “How could that be?” Nee’lahn asked. 
“You yourself gave birth to Fardale’s child.”
Thorn sighed. “It is only our spirits that are tied to the tree, not our bodies. 
Each new si’lura born is spiritually linked to the tree. It is our Spiritual 
Root. Without this connection, we’d fade… first our ability to shift, then our 
very lives.”
“No wonder the secrecy,” Harlequin whispered at Er’ril’s shoulder.
Er’ril glanced to the small man, reading the significance behind his narrowed 
gaze. Would they be allowed to leave with this intimate knowledge?
Er’ril swung around with a frown. Once started down this path, there was no 
going back. “What does this have to do with Fardale and Mogweed?” he grumbled to 
Thorn.
Thorn nodded. “I’m coming to that, but first I must tell of a threat that arose 
here five centuries ago.”
“That was when Alasea was attacked by the Dark Lord,” Er’ril noted.
“We know little of such matters,” Thorn said. “But during that time, a great 
shaking rocked our lands. It lasted three days and nights. Trees toppled, rivers 
were diverted, and the ground split into chasms.”
Er’ril nodded. “I remember those quakes. They occurred as the southern plains of 
Standi were sunk by the Dark Lord, forming the swamps and bogs of the Drowned 
Lands.”
Thorn narrowed one eye. “You remember the quakes? How could that be?”
Er’ril waved away her query. “Go on. What happened after the ground shook?”
Thorn stared suspiciously a moment, then went on. “Even here in our homeland 
grove, we lost half our ancient trees.”
Nee’lahn groaned. “So many of the Old Ones lost…”
“But the true damage was not known for another century.” The huntress stared 
back at the central tree. “The Spirit Root was also somehow sickened by the 
shaking. The leaders of that time noticed—”
“Thorn,” a voice interrupted sternly, cutting through her words.
They turned to find the eyes of the council upon them again. The el-der’root 
stood before them, his face hard. “Thorn, you speak out of turn.”
“Father, they have a right to know.”
“The secrets of the si’lura—”
“—are going to doom us all,” Thorn snapped. “For too long, we’ve turned our 
backs to the world beyond our forests. This blindness is as much to blame for 
the destruction in the Western Reaches as these folks here.”
Her father’s expression darkened. “That is not for you to decide.” Thorn clamped 
her lips tight, folding her arms.
The elder’root turned to Er’ril and Elena. “There is a way to judge your words,” 
he said. “An ancient ritual used by the si’lura to divine the truth of your 
heart.”
“And what is this ritual?” Er’ril asked.
The tall man swung an arm toward the central pool. At his signal, the council 
retreated to the water’s edge, circling around the banks of the pool. “The Root 
must weigh your spirit.”
Thorn gasped. “Father, that’s unfair! The Spirit Root has not responded in 
ages.”
Her father’s eyes flashed. “Again, Daughter, I’ll ask you to watch your tongue, 
or I’ll have you taken from my sight.” Thorn’s face reddened, but she obeyed.
Er’ril stepped forward. “Tell us what we must do to prove ourselves.” The 
elder’root stared another moment at his daughter, then turned again to Er’ril. 
Beyond him, the council had resumed their positions around the pool, but now 
they had joined arms. A gap in their ranks remained. The spot awaited their 
leader to complete the circle.
The elder’root spoke to their group. “The Root must judge one of your party. If 
you speak the truth, the Spirit of the Root will rise and acknowledge you. If 
you speak with a false heart, you will be shunned.” Elena stepped around Er’ril. 
“I will take on this task.”
“No.” He grabbed Elena’s arm. “You mustn’t risk yourself.” She freed her arm, 
gently but firmly. “We will honor their custom.”
“Then let me be the one to be judged.”
Elena turned her back on the council, faced him, and stepped closer. Her voice 
dropped to an intimate whisper. “Er’ril, I need to do this.” Her eyes were 
pained as she stared up at him.
He reached toward her cheek, wanting to soothe that ache. But he dropped his 
hand. He recognized the desire in her heart. Elena wanted to be judged. The 
sorrow and tragedy of the past half moon weighed on her, and here was a chance 
for her to lighten her burden, to gain acknowledgment that their cause was just, 
that the innocents lost in this battle had died for a true reason.
He took her hand instead. “Elena…”
“I’ll be careful.” She leaned into him. “And I’m not defenseless. My magicks 
have not been weakened by the nexus. Being blood-borne, my powers are still my 
own.”
He lifted her gloved hand and pressed it against her heart. “Still, remember 
where lies your greatest strength.”
She moved her hand to his chest. “How could I forget?” Er’ril was overwhelmed by 
a desire to kiss the woman he loved. It took all his restraint to resist. A 
tremble passed through his form. His breathing grew deeper.
Elena must have sensed this war of emotions and broke the stalemate. She leaned 
up and kissed his lips softly, a mere brush of breaths, the touch of skin on 
skin. She spoke between their lips. “I’ll let nothing keep us apart.”
Her touch and words broke his control. He crushed her against him, turning a 
soft kiss into something deeper, a heat that spoke of passions yet unfathomed. 
But now was not the time to explore those depths. Both of them knew this truth 
and broke away at the same time. Only their eyes remained upon one another.
Harlequin mumbled, “Maybe a dip in that cool pool will do them both some good.”
Elena glanced to the small man, shattering the moment.
“If you’re ready,” the elder’root said, “the Spirit Root awaits.”
Elena nodded, but Er’ril caught her hand one more time. “Take care.”
She squeezed his fingers. “I will. I won’t forget my promise.” She turned and 
joined the elder’root.
As they walked away, Elena’s words echoed in his heart: I’ll let nothing ‘teep 
us apart. He prayed it was a promise she could keep.
The group followed, but only Elena was allowed through the ring of council 
members. Once past them, she stepped to the edge of the pool. She turned to the 
elder’root as the shape-shifter closed the gap in the circle. “Show me what I 
must do.”
The council leader slipped a cord from around his neck. Hanging from the loop 
was a long splinter of white wood, polished to a sharp point. He handed it to 
her. “The syn, a sliver of the Spirit Root itself.”
Elena accepted the talisman.
“You must pierce a finger and mark the pool with your blood.”
“Blood? Why blood?”
“The Root must taste your essence to judge your heart.” The elder’root joined 
hands with his other council members, completing the circle. As he did so, the 
flesh of his hand melted into his neighbors‘.
I O
Er’ril saw this effect spread around the ring. Shape-shifter melted into 
shape-shifter, forming a ring of flowing flesh, connecting through their arms, 
encircling the pool and mystical tree.
Elena stared at the sliver of wood. “Perhaps we should choose another.”
“The circle is formed and cannot be broken,” the Elder’root intoned, his voice 
deeper, more resonant.
Elena’s lips thinned to hard lines. She faced the pool and stripped off a glove. 
With her back turned, no one seemed to notice the ruby hue to her skin.
Er’ril stepped closer, his own hands clenched into fists.
A voice spoke at his side. Thorn still wore a sour expression. “It is nothing to 
fear, plainsman. Ever since the quakes five centuries ago, the Root has grown 
sedate. It has been ages since the Root has stirred from the sacred pool.”
Er’ril prayed the huntress was correct. “Then tell me what happened here,” he 
urged. “What happened five centuries ago?”
Thorn glanced to her father as a chanting arose from the circle. She hesitated, 
then leaned closer. “The Root is the living heart of our people,” she said with 
a nod to the tree. “It has given guidance and foresight to our people for untold 
centuries. It speaks with the voice and wisdom of the ages. But after the 
quakes, the Root went silent. It would occasionally stir, but all communion with 
the elder’root, the one chosen by the Spirit Root to lead our people, ceased. 
The last time the Root even stirred was to select my father from the council to 
replace the last leader.”
“But what do Mogweed and Fardale have to do with all this?”
Thorn sighed, then spoke. “The last time the Root spoke, on the final day of the 
quakes, it communed with the elder’root of that age. The Root said that a dark 
time lay ahead, but that one day, twin brothers would be born amongst us. These 
twins would be known by their curse and would have to be sent blind into the 
world. The pair would mark either a new beginning for us or herald our end, 
depending on whether they ever found a cure.”
“And this newest twist of the curse upon the brothers?” Thorn shook her head. 
“It bodes the end of our people.” Across the way, the chanting ended, and the 
elder’root nodded from his position. “The moon nears its highest point. Let us 
begin.”
Elena turned. Within the circle of flowing flesh, she positioned the syn of the 
si’lura against a ruby finger of her right hand.
“Under this night’s moon,” the elder’root continued solemnly, “let the Root 
taste the blood of the accused!”
Elena pierced her finger with the splinter of white wood. The effect was 
immediate and dazzling. The syn burst into flame, flashing bright, then burned 
instantly to ash.
A stunned cry arose from the joined council.
Elena held up her empty hands as ash fell between her fingers.
“Blasphemer!” someone cried out from the council ring.
Er’ril started toward her, but a sudden upwelling roiled the pool’s waters. 
“Elena!” he called in warning.
She glanced back to him, her expression confused.
Behind her, the waters suddenly exploded upward. A giant beast shot out of the 
waters, drenched and slithering skyward. It was a monstrous white worm, draped 
with tentacles and writhing feelers.
“The Root!” Thorn gasped. “It wakes!”
With her words, Er’ril recognized his initial mistaken impression. The creature 
of the pool was not a worm, but a dripping length of white-barked root, trailing 
with squirming rootlets and fibers.
The shocked cry of the council turned to one of wonder.
“The Spirit Root has found you worthy!” the Elder’root shouted. “It stirs from 
its depths at long last!”
Elena had been knocked back by the sudden uprising of the living root. She 
crouched, swamped by the surge of water. “What am I to do now?” she shouted back 
to the council members.
“Nothing!” the elder’root said. “The Root acknowledges you! Your heart is judged 
pure. The trial is over!”
Elena backed away from the pool.
“It’s over?” Er’ril mumbled.
The joined council members began to separate, hands re-forming and letting go of 
one another. As the chain broke, the length of root began to subside back into 
the pool.
Thorn’s voice filled with wonder. “I had never thought to see the Root stir. 
This is a wondrous night. It gives us all hope.”
The elder’root echoed his daughter’s sentiment. “Perhaps all’s not lost.”
Elena turned to face the si’luran leader. She appeared still shaken. Her gaze 
brushed Er’ril’s. She silently nodded that she was fine.
The length of Root had sunk until only a few rootlets waved above the waters. 
But a sudden swirl closer to the bank caught Er’ril’s eye. A tangle of white 
roots burst from the shallows and grabbed Elena. In a heartbeat, she was jerked 
from her feet and dragged high into the air.
“Elena!” Er’ril shouted, leaping forward. The elder’root fell back from the 
attack. Thorn also seemed stunned. He ran past them both.
Trapped in the net of writhing roots, Elena struggled futilely. Her cry reached 
his ears. “Er’ril!” Then with the speed of a cracking whip, the tangle of roots 
jerked their captive into the pool and away. A loud splash marked the impact.
Er’ril slipped in the slick mud and slid on his knees to the edge of the pool. 
Water sloshed the banks, but grew quickly still. The moonlit pool, shaded by the 
branches of the giant tree, was as black as pitch. Nothing could be seen in its 
depths.
He shoved up, ready to dive in, but Thorn gripped his arm. “It is death to enter 
those waters. The pull of the current will drag you down, too.”
Er’ril knocked her hand away and faced the waters, searching, desperate, a 
prayer on his lips. “Elena…”
Writhing in the tangle, Elena held her breath in a strained panic. Her eyes were 
stretched wide, seeking some means of escape. Darkness enveloped her, and a 
chill reached down to her bones. The water’s pressure grew on her ears as she 
was dragged ever deeper.
Desperate for escape, she reached to the chorus of wild magicks in her heart and 
drove them toward her wounded hand. In the darkness, a crimson torch bloomed, 
blazing bright—her wit’ch fire, bleeding forth from her pricked finger. The mere 
touch had burned the si’luran talisman to ash. Perhaps it could free her now.
But a part of her balked from such action. She sensed she could burn her way out 
of this tangle, but if she attacked with her magickal fire, what would be the 
consequence? She pictured the entire tree falling to ash like the sliver of the 
syn. If the tree were destroyed, what of the si’lura? Could she risk an entire 
people? Was her own life worth such a price? She understood her role in 
prophecies and portents. She knew the fight against the Dark Lord overshadowed 
all. But here and now, the fate of an entire people hung in the balance.
The pressure continued to build in her ears. Tiny lights began to dance in her 
vision from the lack of air. If she were to free herself, she would have to act 
now.
She blazed the torch of her magick brighter. Don’t make me do this…
In the cold depths, nothing answered.
Her chest burned for air.
She closed her eyes and reached out with her wit’ch fire. Faces flashed across 
her mind’s eye: Fardale, Mogweed, even Thorn, the proud huntress
I
standing before her father. She remembered Aunt My, a shape-shifter who had 
loved her like a daughter. And out amongst the forests, a milling throng yet 
waited. So many other stories, so many other lives. Was hers so much more 
important?
Elena curled her outstretched fingers into a fist, snuffing out her mag-ick. 
There were some costs she wasn’t willing to pay. She stopped her struggles and 
gave in to the chill.
As she relaxed her panic, words quietly sifted into her awareness, spoken with a 
familiar voice: Child… of blood and stone…
It took her a moment to recall where she had heard those same words before. Her 
nose filled with the memory of woodsmoke. Her ears remembered the screech of a 
hunting predator. It was back during the orchard fire, the pyre that had marked 
the beginning of her long journey. She and Joach had sought shelter in the 
hollow husk of a great tree. She had given the giant a name: Old Man. The night 
they had sheltered there, she had heard this same voice. She remembered those 
words: Child.. . of blood and stone… a boon… see’t my children ...
Here it was again. Words filled her head. Child… of blood and stone…
heed me…
Elena found it hard to concentrate. Her heart pounded in her ears. The dance of 
lights before her eyes grew more flurried as the lack of air swooned her. 
Nee’lahn had called these ancient, primitive trees the Old Ones. Was that 
ancient stump, the Old Man, one of these same trees? Words formed in her head: 
Heed me… Breathe . .. Elena had no choice but to obey. Her strained chest 
heaved. Water rushed in through her mouth and nose, choking, gagging, sweeping 
with a cold weight into her chest. Breathe…
And to her surprise, she realized she could. The sense of suffocation dissolved 
away. She breathed in and out. It was a strange sensation, inhaling and exhaling 
the cool waters. The tiny sparks of light vanished from her vision.
Breathe the living waters…
The tangle of roots fell away, releasing her, a soft glow arose from the smaller 
roots, a pure white light. She did not need spellcast eyes to recognize the 
elemental energy here. The glow spread down the rootlets to the main taproot. A 
blaze of light grew under her, and with it came a deep warmth, driving off the 
water’s chill.
She floated in place. With her lungs heavy with water, her natural buoyancy 
seemed to be thwarted.
She spoke into the waters, another odd sensation with water moving through her 
mouth. The words were muffled to her own ears, but she sensed someone listening. 
“Who are you?”
We are the Guardians, the Old Ones, the Root of the world. You have been found 
worthy.
Elena’s brow crinkled.
You chose that which is greater than one’s own self.
Elena slowly understood. She had chosen not to burn the spiritual tree, 
protecting the fate of a people over her own life. This had been a test, one she 
had passed. Still, a bit of anger flared inside her.
Her emotions must have been sensed. You will be tested again, child of blood and 
stone … this we know. Next time it will be far worse.
Elena felt the truth of these words, and a shiver of fear traced through her. 
“Why am I here?” she asked. “What do you wish of me?”
Our children… thefol’t of flowing water and flesh…
“The si’lura?”
She sensed agreement. It is time for them to leave the forests. To protect their 
home, they must now abandon it.
“Leave? Where will they go?”
To where you take them.
Elena felt a surge of shock. “Where I take them?” She stared down at the glowing 
mass of roots. “Why me?”
Across the mountains, a dar’t root worms toward the world’s heart. To protect 
itself the world pulls its reach bac’t to its core, curling down upon itself.
“I don’t understand.”
The time of our guardianship is over.
The words grew fainter, the glow below her ebbing. Elena sensed that the Spirit 
Root must have lain dormant for centuries, storing its last energies for this 
final burst of communication. Now it was quickly fading.
She who came before you foretold your coming…foretold this dar’t tide…
“Who?”
The ancient speaker seemed to have grown deaf to her words. She waits for you… 
She knew you would come…
The glow of the Root flared brighter. Elena hoped it was a sign of renewed 
vitality, but the surge quickly faded again. Below her, something stirred, 
rising from the depths toward her.
She knew you would come … A twisting cord of root snaked upward. Something held 
in its glowing grip was thrust at her; she had no choice but to take it. She 
stared in horror at what lay in her hands… at the rose-carved handle.
l
Lead our children with this sign… The voice was a dwindling whisper. Ta^e them 
where they must stand…
“Wh-where is that?” Elena pleaded.
To the Twins… the Twins… the Twins…
With each fading echo, the glow subsided, ebbing away into the waters until only 
darkness lay around her.
The Spirit Root had died—and with it, so did the magicks in the waters.
At that instant, Elena found it impossible to breathe. Her lungs, a moment ago 
filled with living water, now held only cold pond water. She choked and gagged; 
leaden limbs fought the pull of the depths. She craned her neck and spotted the 
bare glimmer of moonlight, impossibly far away. She struggled, but the face of 
the moon grew smaller as she was sucked downward.
A blackness that had nothing to do with the depths closed around her.
Er’ril… help me…
Crouched at the bank, Er’ril stared into the sacred pool, his heart pounding in 
his ears. The others gathered around him—his own party and the council members.
Earlier, his desperate need to dive in after Elena had diminished as the waters 
had begun to glow. The shine from the deep had cast the surface of the pool to 
silver.
“Pure elemental energy,” Nee’lahn had whispered.
The elder’root had tears in his eyes. “The Spirit of the Root! I hear the echo 
of its voice.”
Thorn had taken her father’s hand in her own. “It’s a miracle.”
Er’ril had known that Elena was alive—but for how long? With his heart clenched 
like a fist in his chest, he had watched the waxing and waning of the pool’s 
glow, ready to leap at any moment. And then the pool had gone dark and quiet.
Er’ril turned to the elder’root. “Do you still hear the voice of the Root?” The 
stricken look on the man’s face was answer enough. The leader of the si’lura 
fell to his knees.
Thorn dropped beside him. “Father!”
“What is going on?” Er’ril asked. “What about Elena?”
The elder’root dug his hands into the muddy bank. “It’s gone,” he whispered.
Er’ril swung back to the pool. “No!” With panic tightening his chest, he dove 
straight into the depths. The water’s chill struck him immediately, but fear 
fired his blood. He kicked and swept his arms, driving down into the dark.
Elena…
He felt a tugging, toward the depths below, and hope surged in his chest. Was it 
some magick of Elena’s? Then the gentle pull became an inescapable drag. It was 
not her magick, he realized, but the pool’s current. He was trapped in the 
vortex. He fought the tide, but after a frantic moment, he let his resistance 
go. Elena was down here somewhere. Let the current take him to the bottom—that 
is, if there was a bottom to the endless pool.
As the darkness around him grew complete, he lost sense of his surroundings. Was 
he traveling up or down now? The only way he could measure was by the growing 
pressure on his ears. His chest, too, felt the water’s weight, as if the pool 
were squeezing the air from his lungs.
Thorn had been right. It was death to enter these swirling waters. But death was 
a small price to pay for a chance to reach Elena, if only to hold her one last 
time.
Er’ril… help me…
At first, he was sure it was his strained mind that had voiced this plea. But 
his heart could not deny the hope. Elena!
From out of the darkness, a glimmer of silver caught his eye from far below, 
glowing with its own light. The current swirled him down toward the feeble 
light.
As he neared, he saw the shine came from a rod of silver—clutched in the grip of 
a dark figure that spun in an eddy of the current, limp and lifeless.
Er’ril kicked his way over to Elena. In the glow, he saw her eyes open but 
sightless. He swam up to her, pulling her into his arms. At least he would have 
his last wish before he died. He clutched her hard to his strained chest.
Then he felt it—the beat of her heart against him.
She lived!
He struggled for some way to free them both. He searched, but darkness lay all 
around them. They were but a mote of light in a raging current. Elena…
There was no answer this time.
He stared down into her face, then her hands. They shone ruby in the l
light from the silver object. He saw that it was not a rod, but a sword, shining 
with its own inner light. Elena’s ringers clung instinctively to the magickal 
blade.
His lungs on fire, Er’ril freed a hand and grabbed the hilt of the sword. If he 
could not awake Elena, perhaps he could rouse the wit’ch!
He stared into Elena’s slack face once more. Forgive me!
He drew the sword from between her palms as if unsheathing it from a scabbard. 
The fine blade sliced through her skin, and a bloom of blood flowed free.
Elena jerked as if struck by lightning.
In his head, a wailing exploded, a chorus of wild lusts and madness.
Er’ril resisted the urge to kick away. Instead he clung to the woman he loved, 
his arms and legs wrapping tight around her. Blood flowed between them, a mix of 
ice and fire, while the screams of wild magick howled all around them.
Er’ril squeezed his eyes tight. Elena, come bac’t to me…
Meric stood with the others by the bank of the pool.
Nee’lahn spoke at his shoulder. “The waters…” She pointed an arm. “They no 
longer churn.”
Meric realized she was right. The swirl of the waters had ceased. The surface of 
the pool was flat and featureless.
“The nexus has ended,” Greshym said. “The world has cut off this channel to its 
heart.”
As if hearing him, a strange howl rose from the pool like a mist. The cry sailed 
off into the night and away. No one spoke for a long breath.
Then the elder’root lunged up from where he had been kneeling, lost in his 
grief. He faced the group now, his furious eyes taking them all in. “You all did 
this! You and that demoness!”
Thorn tried to put a restraining hand on her father, but he shook her away.
Meric met his challenge without flinching. “This is not our doing.”
Thorn stepped between them, her stance pure wolf. “What has happened here?”
Meric and the elder’root stared each other down.
Her father answered, froth on his lips. “The Spirit Root is dead! Slain by their 
demoness!”
“She would not have done that,” Meric spat back. “Not even to save her own 
life!” As much as it trembled his heart, he knew his words to be true.
Thorn must have sensed his passion and held up her arms, urging restraint. 
“Father, we should give this some thought before—”
A gust of wind swirled into the sacred valley. Leaves tumbled from above, a fall 
of copper as thick as a heavy snowfall.
The elder’root glanced up. The leaves fell from the branches overhead, cascading 
down, leaving limbs bare. The pool became covered with a raft of fallen leaves. 
“There is your answer, Daughter! The Spirit has left us, destroyed by these 
heathens!”
A great cry rose from the valley’s edges. All the ancient trees were shedding 
their leaves, as if laying their own death shrouds at their rooted feet.
“All the Old Ones,” Nee’lahn murmured, “all dying.”
“Step aside, Daughter,” the elder’root said with thick menace. “Before our 
people die, I will see the blood of these desecrators darken our soil.”
The elder’root hunched where he stood; then with a roar, he burst outward, his 
cloak shredding as the beast inside him was unleashed. Black fur sprouted; a 
muzzle of fanged teeth pushed forth with a roar. Hands became heavy paws of 
razored claws. The huge bear rose on muscled legs and bellowed its rage.
Thorn backed from the display. “Father! No!” She barely dodged a heavy swat 
meant to knock her aside.
Meric stepped past her “Go, girl. This isn’t your fight.” He crouched, ready to 
meet the challenge.
With a howl, the bear leaped at Meric, claws extended to rip flesh from bone. 
But before the bulk could hit, a wall of brambles shot from the soil, coming 
between them. The bear hit the thorny barrier while Meric stumbled back.
“Over here!” Nee’lahn called.
Meric risked a glance backward. The others were gathered in a cluster, including 
the trappers. Nee’lahn stood before them, straight-backed, arms extended, 
fingers splayed.
“With the nexus gone,” Nee’lahn explained, “we have our magick again! Can’t you 
feel it?”
Meric, distracted by the elder’root, had failed to notice that the weight had 
lifted from his shoulders. He reached to his magick, and his silver hair flared 
around his shoulders with a nimbus of energy. He was whole again!
Meric backed to join the others as the elder’root tore at the tangle of brambles 
and briars, bleeding from the thousand thorns. Nee’lahn spread her arms, and the 
bramble barrier swept out in both directions, circling the party within its 
thorny ramparts. She continued to feed her power, calling upon her magicks, 
thickening the bulwarks, growing it taller.
Beyond her defenses, the shape-shifters attacked, taking their lead from the 
elder’root. All around the valley, si’lura flowed toward the fighting, enraged 
by the sight of the ancient trees dead and bare. The crunch of foot, paw, and 
hoof through the fall of leaves sounded everywhere, like the crackle of a deadly 
forest fire.
Above their heads, shape-shifters took to wing, diving toward the island in the 
center of the bramble sea. But Meric cast out his own magick and fouled their 
aim with sudden gusts and impossible currents.
Closer at hand, others tried to burrow through or under the barrier, but 
Nee’lahn blocked them at every turn.
Slowly turning, back to back, as in some deadly dance, Nee’lahn and Meric fought 
to hold their ramparts.
In the middle of the fray, Joach huddled with Harlequin, staring toward the 
great dead tree, barren of leaves. “Elena…”
Beyond the barrier, the pool was covered with copper leaves. Nothing stirred. 
There was no sign of Er’ril or Elena.
Over the past moons, Joach had experienced all manners of despair— the loss of 
his youth, the death of Kesla—but at this moment he knew he’d barely touched the 
true depths of hopelessness. It was a well without bottom, and he was falling 
ever deeper. The screams and howls around him muted, colors dulled, bled of 
their substance.
A sharp cry twitched his eyes to the left. He spotted Bryanna being tugged 
toward a hole that had opened in the ground. Her bare foot was gripped in the 
vice of armored pincers.
Her brother, Gunther, leaped to her aid, silent in his purpose and 
determination. He grabbed the pincers with his fingers, then bulled his 
shoulders and pried them apart. Something mewled down in the hole.
Bryanna tugged her foot free and rolled away.
“Stand back!” Nee’lahn called from across the way.
Gunther let go of the pincers and hurtled away. At his heels, a tangle of briars 
swelled from the ground and clogged the hole, growing thicker with every 
heartbeat.
“There are too many!” Nee’lahn cried out. “They’re coming from all sides.”
As if to demonstrate this point, something large dove past Joach’s shoulder, 
snatched up one of the trappers, and winged past the brambles. Joach followed 
its flight. The plucked man struggled, his shoulder impaled by the claws of the 
giant roc. His weight was too much for the shape-shifter to hold aloft. The 
trapper was shaken lose. He fell hard to the ground outside the barriers.
“Dimont!” Gunther cried.
But it was already too late—the trapper was set upon by a score of beasts: 
wolves, sniffers, cats.
“We can’t hold out much longer,” Meric called.
Joach shook his head. What did it matter? What were they holding out for?
A familiar roar sounded behind him. Joach turned to see a bear rise up on its 
hind legs. Behind the elder’root, the slope of the valley was covered with 
si’lura of every shape and size, beasts of every ilk. Though Joach could not 
communicate in the mindspeak of the shape-shifters, he still read their leader’s 
black thoughts: He meant to slay them all.
“Here they come!” Meric shouted.
With a howl of blood lust, the elder’root led his people in a final charge. But 
before they could crash against the thorny barrier, a crack of thunder split the 
valley. The clap of noise froze everyone in place, stopping the charge in 
midstride. In the center of the leaf-strewn pool, the trunk of the great Spirit 
Tree had split from crown to root, its two halves tilting apart but not 
toppling. A heavy mist rose from the shattered wood.
A chill spread outward, as if true winter had come to the summer valley. 
“Hoarfrost,” Nee’lahn whispered, arms lowering slightly.
Past the briars, the shape-shifters began to stir. Growls and hissing rose anew, 
but more subdued, unsure.
Only Thorn, still wearing her womanly form, stepped closer to the pond and tree. 
“What does this mean?” she asked. Her words were not shouted, but the sudden 
quiet made her easy to hear. She faced both sides of the warring field, as if 
unclear who to blame, who might have answers.
But the answer came from behind her. The leaves floating atop the pond swirled 
in a tight eddy; then a fist of ice blasted forth, carried high into the air 
atop a pillar of frozen water.
Thorn danced away as the pond sloshed over the banks, but the water never 
reached the mud. In midsplash, the waters froze into crystalline sculptures. The 
entire pond froze over, spreading outward from the pillar. Then the freeze blew 
outward, turning the mud solid and assuring its banks, while mists of hoarfrost 
blanketed the center of the valley. Where these ice fogs brushed the bramble 
ramparts, leaves curled black and stalks shattered from the cold.
All eyes focused on the fist of ice atop the pillar. Through the crystalline 
surface, a darker shape was evident.
“Elena…” Joach whispered.
As if hearing him, the fist suddenly blew outward in a hail of ripping shards. 
As the blast cleared, Joach saw Elena and Er’nl. Elena crouched, her left hand 
planted atop the pillar—the hand of coldfire now pale and empty.
She held her other hand out toward those gathered below. Wit’ch fire danced 
around her ruby fingers. Er’ril rose groggily behind her. Joach stood. “Elena!”
Still dazed, her lungs aching, Elena tried to make sense of the scene before 
her. The moonlit valley was filled with shape-shifters. Close at hand, a ring of 
briars surrounded her friends. She heard Joach call out, but his voice sounded 
strangely distant.
Her ears still rang with the pressure of the depths. Her breathing was ragged 
and loud in her ears. Further, the magick spent in driving her to the surface of 
the pond had left her feeling hollow and empty.
Moments ago, near to drowning, she had been dragged from oblivion by a chorus of 
wild magicks surging in her blood. When she found Er’ril clinging to her, she 
had reacted out of blind instinct, more for Er’ril’s safety than her own. 
Touching her coldfire, she fed her magick into the waters below her, propelling 
them both to the surface atop a column of ice. Once out of the pond, a bit of 
her fiery magick had freed them from the icy cocoon.
Now released, Elena reined in her wit’ch fire, extinguishing the dancing flames 
and driving back the call of wild magicks.
“Are you all right?” she asked Er’ril. Her words were weak and hoarse.
He crawled to his knees. “I am… now that you’re safe.” She drew strength from 
the iron in his voice.
Below, Thorn stepped nearer. “What happened?” the huntress called up to them.
Elena shifted atop her pillar, standing with care on the slick summit. On his 
knees, Er’ril helped hold her steady as her legs trembled from the cold. Icicles 
still hung from her clothes and hair. A violent shiver threatened to topple her 
from her perch.
“Elena,” Thorn repeated, “what happened?”
A bear padded up to the huntress. Elena’s eyes widened at the sight of the huge 
beast. Then with a shake, the bearish features faded to some-thing that was a 
blend of animal and man: Thorn’s father, the elder’root of the si’lura.
A growl of challenge arose from his throat before words slowly formed. “You’ve 
killed us all!”
Elena had trouble making sense of these words. She searched for some way down 
from the pillar. Already the ice was melting in rivulets and runnels.
“Be careful,” Er’ril mumbled behind her, teeth chattering. “The si’lura think 
you destroyed their Spirit Tree.”
Elena stopped her search and stared at the pair gathered below. She fought her 
numb tongue. “Destroy the Root? I would never—”
“Lies!” the elder’root shouted. An echo of growls accompanied him from the 
others.
Thorn stepped farther forward, as if distancing herself from both her father and 
his accusation. “Then tell us what happened.”
Elena glanced back to the ice-blasted tree, its trunk split in half. She stared 
out at the bare trees framing the valley. They were all dead. “ ‘The time of our 
guardianship is over…’ ” she mumbled, echoing the words of the Root.
“What was that?” Thorn asked.
Elena breathed deeply. “The Root spoke to me,” she said, shivering, struggling 
to make her voice firm. “It said that to protect these forests, you must abandon 
them.”
“Never!” the elder’root exclaimed.
Thorn held a palm toward her father, pleading patience. “Where are we to go?”
“To seek the Twins.”
Thorn gasped. “Fardale and Mogweed?”
Elena nodded. A bit of warmth slowly returned to her limbs. “I believe that was 
what the Old One meant. I sensed a picture of the two brothers.”
“These are lies!” the elder’root hissed.
“Father,” Thorn argued, “you yourself said the Root communed with Elena. Would 
it have done so if she had meant it harm? The Root knows a person’s heart.”
Her words seemed to shake her father. For a moment, the beastly features 
threatened to overwhelm the man. “The Root was sick… Perhaps it didn’t know a 
demon could wear such an innocent face.”
“You saw the glow, Father. The Root has not shone with such brilliance in ages. 
It chose her for this message.”
“To leave the forests and seek the cursed Twins?” Thorn shook her head. “The 
Root has always guided us. Shall we ignore its last message?”
“How do we know this stranger speaks the truth to us?” Now it was Thorn’s turn 
to seem unsure. She faced Elena, her eyes pleading for some sign, some proof.
Elena was unsure what to do. Er’ril leaned closer. “Perhaps you should show them 
this.” He half unsheathed a length of silver sword. Elena’s eyes widened as she 
recognized the talisman from the Root. “You were clutching it when I found you.”
She nodded and took the weapon in her left hand, pulling it free. She recalled 
the plea of the Root: Lead my people with this sign…
Elena fought the shaking of her limbs. She cleared her aching throat and raised 
her voice for all to hear. “I am charged to lead you from your forests! So the 
Root has burdened me! As proof, it has given me this!”
She lifted the sword for all to see. Its razored edges were so sharp that it was 
hard to define the weapon’s boundaries. Touched by moonlight, the blade ignited 
with its own inner shine, blazing bright into the night. Gasps arose throughout 
the valley.
“It cannot be!” the elder’root exclaimed. He dropped to his knees, while the 
other shape-shifters milled in confusion. “Father, what’s wrong?”
The elder’root reached blindly toward his daughter. “It is something shared only 
between the great Root and its chosen. A secret promise sworn by the elder’root 
of each generation.”
“What promise?”
His voice was a whisper, but Elena heard him. “To follow the one foretold in 
ages past, she who would bear the Sword of the Rose again.”
Thorn stared up at Elena and the shining blade. “The Sword of the Rose?”
Elena knew what she held aloft; she had recognized the sword from the moment it 
was laid in her hands. Back at A’loa Glen, Elena had read every text, rumor, and 
tale about her ancestor, Sisa’kofa, and she recognized the weapon borne by the 
ancient wit’ch. It had been described countless times and called by many names: 
Demon Blade, Spirit Stealer, Wit’ch Sword. By whatever name, the length of 
shining silver with its rose-carved hilt could not be mistaken.
She raised the sword forged of elemental silver, the same metal that channeled 
the Land’s energy. Even now, she felt the power vibrating within the blade’s 
length.
“The Root is gone,” she intoned. “It has returned to the world’s heart to offer 
its strength against a greater threat.”
“What are we to do without it?” Thorn asked. “It is our spiritual center. With 
it gone, we will die.”
Elena stared out at the gathered army. “But for now, you live! The fate of your 
people is not yet decided. I am to lead you beyond these forests, to the Twins. 
The brothers hold the key to your future.”
Angered mutterings rumbled from those gathered below. But the elder’root stood, 
holding up an arm to draw attention his way. He faced his people. “So it was 
foretold. So it will be!”
Others made sounds of disagreement, but the elder’root stood fast. He faced the 
crowd until they grew silent. None challenged openly now, but an undercurrent of 
doubt persisted.
“We will prevail,” the elder’root said plainly. “The Root has guided our people 
since we rose from the waters of our birth. We will trust its judgment now.”
Softer murmurs flowed through the crowd. Elena sensed her duty here was done for 
now. She knew their leader would eventually sway most to their cause. With the 
tide turned, the strength ebbed from her limbs. The sword trembled as she 
lowered it.
Then Er’ril was there. He caught the blade by its pommel, she returned it to his 
safekeeping. Ever her protector…
He slipped it into his empty scabbard.
She swung her attention to the pillar. With her right hand, she cast out 
tendrils of wit’ch fire and melted a chute down the ice tower. It was steep, but 
Er’ril wrapped her in his arms, and they slid down the trough of melted ice. At 
the bottom, Er’ril lifted her, holding her tight. She pressed her cheek against 
his chest. Despite the soaking and ice, he was so warm.
The elder’root stepped toward them, all signs of the beast gone. The leader’s 
eyes shone with regret. “I’m sorry…”
Er’ril brushed past him and headed for the gap in the briars. Once through, he 
began to order those around him. Elena barely heard, listening instead to the 
thump of his heart. “… horses and tents. And build a large fire…”
Elena slipped her hand through Er’ril’s shirt, resting her palm against his hot 
skin. She closed her eyes and sank into his warmth.
For now, this was fire enough.
As DAWNED NEARED, GrESHYM WATCHED Er’rIL LEAVE Elena’s TENT AND
cross to the fire. From the clear relief on the man’s face, the girl must be 
recovering well from her dunking and the freezing touch of her own magick. A 
si’luran healer had taken her draughts of steaming herbs, a mix of peppermint 
and ale-leaf, from the smell of it. Afterward Greshym had overheard the 
shape-shifter telling the trapper Bryanna that Elena should recover fully in the 
next day or two.
Still, throughout the long night, Er’ril kept returning to the camp’s fire to 
gather fresh coals to warm her blankets. As the plainsman bent by the fire, 
Greshym eyed the rose-carved pommel of the sword he bore. It shone bright as a 
star, even in the feeble firelight.
Shadowsedge… That was what Sisa’kofa had called the sword herself, leading to 
the rumor that it was sharp enough to separate a man from his own shadow.
Greshym’s eyes narrowed as he studied the sheathed blade. He could not believe 
his luck to have the ancient weapon within reach. Such a boon could not be 
ignored, even if it meant delaying his own plans.
As Er’ril gathered fresh coals into a pan, Greshym let his eyelids drift closed. 
He sought the familiar heartbeat of his servant. Rukh hid well outside the 
si’luran valley. Greshym sent a silent message to the stump gnome.
Earlier, Greshym had eavesdropped on a terse conversation between Er’ril and the 
elder’root. He knew where the group was going next: to the Northern Fang, where 
Mogweed and Fardale had last been headed.
He bound his orders to Rukh as well as he could, using the last dregs of his 
magick. The beast would have to set out immediately to reach those same lands in 
time. Keep my staff safe, he urged. He knew Rukh still carried the length of 
hollow bone. He sensed the gnome’s fear of the tool, but the creature would 
obey. Satisfied, Greshym brought his attention back to where Er’ril returned to 
Elena’s tent, hot coals in hand, oblivious to the dire weapon he carried at his 
side.
A voice intruded on Greshym’s reveries. “What are you plotting?”
Joach asked harshly behind him.
Greshym glanced over his shoulder. “So you couldn’t sleep, either,” he 
commented, ignoring the boy’s question.
Joach settled to a boulder with a sigh. “It’s that sword; I saw you studying it. 
You think to use its magick against us.”
Greshym shook his head, smiling broadly. “I wouldn’t touch that weapon for all 
the magick in the Land.”
Joach’s face tightened with suspicion. “Why’s that?”
“You know why.” Greshym nodded to the boy’s petrified wood staff. When Joach’s 
fingers clenched protectively to the stave, Greshym smiled. The boy was already 
lost to it… he just didn’t know it yet.
“Why?” Joach repeated.
He might as well be honest—the truth might do him more good than a lie. Greshym 
glanced back to the tent. “That sword was once wielded by Sisa’kofa, your 
sister’s ancestor.”
“I know,” Joach said sourly. “Elena told me.”
“Of course she did. Once touched, how could she not know it?”
“What do you mean?”
Greshym laughed at the boy’s naivete. “Joach, my young pupil, have you learned 
nothing? Would you not know your own staff?”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
Greshym rolled his eyes. “My boy, you’re not the only one to ever create a blood 
weapon.”
Joach’s eyes widened with shock.
Greshym nodded. “Sisa’kofa bled her own essence into that blade. Naturally one 
wit’ch recognized the touch of another.”
“The Sword of the Rose… ?”
“It’s a blood weapon,” Greshym finished. “Created by Sisa’kofa. One of the most 
powerful and darkest weapons ever forged.” Greshym sighed, leaning back. “It 
will destroy your sister.”
Er’ril passed into the tent. The chill of the night air was quickly warmed away 
by the heat of the tent’s interior. As he crept carefully over to the pile of 
blankets and furs, he found Elena’s eyes open and staring at him.
“You should sleep,” he whispered, slipping the pan of warm coals under the foot 
of her makeshift bed.
“Can’t sleep…” her voice rasped.
He sighed and settled beside her. He felt her forehead. She was still cool to 
the touch. He glanced to the door.
She must have read his mind. “I have enough coals.” A hand wormed out of the 
nest of blankets and sought his. She stared into his eyes. He knew what she 
wanted.
“Just this one night…” she said hoarsely. “Hold me.”
Er’ril squeezed her fingers, seeking some way to deny what she asked.
There was so much yet to do. But as he stared into her wounded face, he let it 
go. This night, he would follow his heart.
In the weak glow of the single lamp, he undid his sword belt and dropped it to 
the floor. She watched his every move as he pulled out of his leathers and 
slipped free of his leggings. Standing only in his smallclothes, he knelt and 
pulled back the furs and blankets. Then he slipped out of the last of his 
garments and slid under the coverings.
He nestled deeper, seeking her out. He pulled her to him, wrapping her in his 
arms, sharing his warmth.
She settled her head against his bare chest. He lowered his cheek to her hair 
and breathed in the scent of her. She stirred against him, soft and 
smooth-skinned. A shiver that had nothing to do with cold passed through him.
She murmured something unintelligible.
“I love you, too,” he answered.
Six days later, Elena stood at the prow of the Windsprite, an elv’in scoutship. 
With the aid of the si’lura, they had made the journey to the Pass of Tears 
without mishap. The rendezvous ship had been waiting, moored to the tops of the 
highland pines.
Elena stared down the slope of the pass all the way back to the forests of the 
Western Reaches. But it was near at hand, spread along the pass, that the 
si’luran army was breaking camp for the next leg of the journey.
Craning forward, Elena stared north. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay their 
destination: the Northern Fang. She would follow the direction of the Spirit 
Root and lead the si’lura to the twin brothers. With luck, perhaps the other 
party had succeeded among the og’res.
The scuff of a boot sounded behind her. She turned and found Er’ril standing 
there, his face dark with worry. “Joach was able to reach Tyrus. His pirate 
brigade is in the Bay of T’lek that surrounds Blackhall.”
“And the main fleet?”
“Three days behind him.
“That’s as we planned, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Tyrus has fears for the d’warf armies.” Er’ril’s brow knit with 
concern. “In the past three days, they’ve had no answers to the crows sent to 
Wennar. Tyrus is heading to the northern coasts to investigate the sudden 
silence.”
“When will we know more?”
James Clemej
“Two days at the least.”
Elena nodded, calculating, “We should be almost to the Northern Fang by then.” 
She bit her lip, then asked the question worrying her most. “What about Sy-wen?”
Er’ril frowned. “No word. Kast remains at A’loa Glen, but there has been no sign 
of her.”
Elena slipped an arm around his waist, grateful to have him at her side. He 
matched her embrace, pulling her to him. The ship’s sails snapped overhead as 
she leaned into him, wishing the moment could stretch forever. After the night 
in the tent, duty and decorum had kept them mostly apart. Still, after sharing 
her bed, some dam had broken between them. Er’ril’s chance kisses were held 
longer; his hands sought her out with more passion. And when she looked into his 
eyes, the hunger there was no longer hidden, only restrained by the moment.
Soon a horn sounded from below, echoing up to the ship. Er’ril sighed. “That 
would be Thorn. The si’lura are ready to depart.”
Elena nodded. “Then we should be under way. Are we all stowed and ready?”
“Yes,” Er’ril said, giving her a final squeeze, “even the horses.”
Despite the dire news, Elena could not stop a smile from forming as she 
remembered the struggle to haul Rorshaf aboard ship. The war charger had not 
been too keen on this mode of travel, but Elena had no intention of leaving the 
stallion behind.
Er’ril leaned in, teasing. “Rorshaf’s never going to forgive you, no matter how 
many apples you coax him with.” He quickly kissed her, then headed toward the 
stern deck, where Meric and the ship’s captain were conferring. Belted to his 
hip was the ancient sword, the silver rose on the pommel glinting in the morning 
sunlight.
Shadowsedge.
Joach had told them of Greshym’s words, revealing the weapon to be a blood 
sword. As a test, Elena had bloodied one hand and wielded the weapon. She had 
indeed felt the dark power stretch into her.
Er’ril had wanted the blade tossed down the nearest deep hole, but Elena had 
refused. The sword was revered by the si’lura, and it was a talisman left by 
Sisa’kofa, for her alone. To compromise, Er’ril insisted on keeping the blade at 
his own side: out of harm’s way, but close enough for its use if necessary.
A second horn sounded from below. “Ho!” Meric called. “We’re under way!”
°
The ship lurched as mooring lines were freed and hauled aboard. The sails 
swelled with winds that were not entirely natural. And then they were off and 
flying.
A great flurry of wings erupted from the ground. Soon the winds were filled with 
eagles of every color and feather: snowy, brown, rust, black, gray, and silver. 
Wings snapped wide and glided the currents and warm uprisings. The growing flock 
flanked the larger elv’in ship and followed its lead over the mountains.
Elena watched the gathering of eagles in the sky.
“So it begins,” a voice said behind her.
She turned and found Harlequin smoking a pipe.
He pointed its glowing stem toward the sky. “Let’s just hope this isn’t their 
last flight.”

Rising through the shallows around A’loa Glen, Kast clung to the mer’ai rider 
before him. Their mount, a sinuous jade seadragon, flowed toward the docks, 
maneuvering through the ruins of the half-submerged city. Kast stared around him 
at the man-made reefs that had once been towers and homes. Schools of 
skipperflicks darted through windows and doorways. Over the centuries, the sea 
had reclaimed this territory as its own. The dragon swam over a toppled statue, 
now festooned with anemone and scuttling crabs.
A graveyard, Kast thought dourly, lost in a black mood. Since Sy-wen’s 
disappearance, the ocean had held none of its charm or mystery. It had become 
just a cold, unforgiving landscape. He could not even transform into Ragnar’k 
and travel the seas on his own. Only Sy-wen’s touch could ignite the magick and 
release the dragon inside him.
So he was glad when they finally broke the sea’s surface into the late afternoon 
sunlight. He spat out the end of his air pod and drew a lungful of clean air, 
shivering in the thin breeze.
The dragon, a slender female, surged under him.
“Ho, Helia,” the rider ahead of him whispered, patting his mount’s neck with 
clear affection. The young mer’ai was little more than a boy, just recently 
bonded to his dragon. In fact, most of the mer’ai left here were the young and 
the elderly. They were quartered in the single Leviathan remaining in the deeper 
waters, with Sy-wen’s mother, Linora. She and Master Edyll had remained behind 
until her daughter’s fate could be determined. All others had departed days ago 
with the warships of the Dre’rendi and the elv’in.
Kast squeezed the young rider’s upper arm. “Thanks for your help, Ty-lyn. And 
for Helia’s skill.”
His words straightened the boy’s shoulders with pride. “My dragon was birthed 
from the best of the bloodlines. You even knew her sire.”
Kast frowned, not understanding what the young rider meant. “I did?”
“The jade,” the boy insisted.
His words made no sense to Kast, but the boy must have caught his confusion. 
“Helia is a jade. The dragon’s color comes from the father, another jade.”
As if sensing she was being spoken about, Helia glanced back over a shoulder. 
Kast’s brows pinched. A jade. As seadragon and man studied one another, Kast 
suddenly understood. The similarities in features between daughter and father 
were plainly evident now that he truly looked. After having spent so much time 
with the mer’ai, Kast had grown to recognize the subtle differences between the 
majestic creatures. “A jade male…” he mumbled.
The boy nodded. “One of the best bloodlines.”
Kast reached up and ran a finger along the nasal ridge of the sniffing dragon. 
For a moment, he felt close again to Sy-wen; she had loved this one’s brave 
father with all her heart. Conch, the bonded mount of Sy-wen’s mother.
Tears blurred his vision.
Ty-lyn glanced past Kast’s shoulder. “Here come the others.” Kast turned. From 
the waters, another six dragons rose. Their riders dragged woven nets, heavy 
with ebon’stone eggs. At the sight, fury overwhelmed him, drying his tears with 
the heat. “That’s the last of ‘em,” the boy commented.
Kast growled in the back of his throat. After seven days, the crashed elv’in 
scoutship had been scoured of its deadly cargo. Over a hundred eggs were already 
stored deep in a windowless stone cellar, its single door guarded by a dozen 
armed guards. Once these last eggs joined the foul clutch, the room would be 
bricked up, never to be opened. It was the safest course. The cargo could not be 
left unwatched on the seabed floor, and all attempts to destroy the eggs with 
fire or hammer had failed.
So it had been necessary to secure the clutch and the tentacled beasts 
incubating inside. It was a grim duty after so many deaths: the ship’s crew, the 
corrupted scholars, even the priceless library. Now a suffocating rage burned 
within Kast, a smoldering fury. He seldom slept. He rarely visited the kitchens, 
and then he shoveled food into his mouth untasted. He sought anything to keep 
himself busy. While the fleets prepared for the as-sault on Blackhall, Kast had 
found plenty to fill his days and nights. But now with the forces gone, Kast 
kept himself occupied bolstering up the defenses of A’loa Glen, including 
securing the clutch of ebon’stone eggs.
Earlier this morning, Kast had gone on this last journey to the ship to ensure 
the matter had been dealt with completely. Even the sands around the crashed 
ship had been sifted and searched to make sure not a single egg was missed.
As Kast turned to the island, a black despair settled into him. In the past, he 
had faced demons and monsters, seen friends slain, but what scared him most and 
threatened to paralyze him now was the empty bed that awaited him. For the 
thousandth time, he pictured the cold eyes of Sy-wen as she had laughed at his 
struggles in the library, how her fingers had reached toward him… not with love, 
but with something as cold as the slime at the bottom of the sea.
“Someone waits for us,” Ty-lyn said, drawing Kast’s attention back to the 
present.
The dragons and their riders swept toward the docks. One of the figures standing 
there raised an arm in greeting: Hunt, the high keel’s son. Behind him stood a 
cadre of Bloodriders.
As the dragons drew abreast of the docks, Hunt reached down and offered a hand. 
Kast took it and allowed himself to be hauled up to the planks. “What’s wrong?” 
he asked, noting the man’s pinched brow and hard stance.
“You’d better get dressed,” Hunt said, and nodded to the pile of clothes Kast 
had left at the end of the docks.
Kast dried off with his own shirt, then slipped on the damp garment; he’d let it 
dry on the walk back to the castle. He pushed into his boots and strapped on his 
sword belt, then turned his attention back to his fellow Bloodrider.
Hunt was studying the other seadragons. “Is that the last haul?”
Kast nodded. “Eighteen.”
Hunt’s eyes never left the seas and the dragons. “How soon can these be hauled 
to the dungeon?”
Kast frowned at the lowering sun. “By dusk at the latest.”
Hunt waved to the other Bloodriders. “I’ve brought men to help make that 
sooner.”
“What’s the urgency?”
Hunt didn’t answer. His only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes. He 
refused to speak aloud.
Curling a fist, Kast held back any further questions. Instead he nodded
j imperceptibly to Hunt, indicating he understood. He swung to Ty-lyn and his 
mount, Helia, bobbing in the waves. “You and the others are to haul this last 
clutch to the dungeon cell as quickly as possible. We’ve additional men to help. 
Alert the others.”
“It will be done!” Ty-lyn struck a fist to his shoulder in salute. “Ho, Helia!” 
Rider and dragon twisted away.
Kast turned back to Hunt, who was directing his men, speaking in hushed, terse 
tones. When he finished, the cadre leader nodded, stepping back. “We’ll watch 
with the eyes of a hawk,” he said.
“What are they to watch?” Kast asked Hunt. “What’s the urgency with these last 
eggs?”
“Come.” Hunt headed down the pier. “There’s something I must show you.”
Kast kept pace with him. “What is it?” he asked irritably, tired of half 
answers.
Hunt waited until they were out of earshot of the others. “Two of the eggs are 
missing.”
Kast stumbled to a stop. “What?” Shock raised his voice.
Hunt motioned him to keep quiet and keep moving. “They vanished during the 
midnight shift last night. I questioned the guards. None admit leaving their 
posts or sleeping, but this morning the egg count is less by two.”
Kast shook his head. “How could that be? A dozen swordsmen couldn’t all have so 
been lax in their duty as to let a thief through.”
Hunt glanced to Kast, his face unreadable. “Last night, the shift was composed 
of all mer’ai.”
Kast’s brows pinched. It was common for shifts to be entirely elv’in, or 
Dre’rendi, or mer’ai. But Kast understood the unspoken suspicion behind Hunt’s 
words. Sy-wen was mer’ai. Was there some connection to a theft that occurred 
during a mer’ai shift? It seemed improbable, but Kast now understood the cadre 
of Bloodriders brought to the dock. We’ll watch with
the eyes of a hawf{.
Hunt leaned in closer, his voice lowering another note. “This morning I 
confirmed the dungeon count myself. And while doing so, I found something else.”
“What?”
“Something you should see for yourself.” They had reached the end of the docks, 
and the usual crowds of fisherfolk and shippers closed around them, silencing 
their talk of traitors and betrayals.
Kast climbed the streets in silence, lost in his thoughts. Part of him, deep in 
his heart, hoped Sy-wen had played a role in this midnight theft— for the past 
half moon, there had been no sign of the woman he loved. Kast feared she had 
already struck out for Blackhall, never to be seen again. But if she had stolen 
the eggs… if she was still here…
A seed of hope rooted in his spirit.
They reached the castle and passed through the gates and guards. Hunt led the 
way through the forecourt and down to the dungeons, where two guards stood post 
with spears and belted swords. Both were Bloodriders; Hunt was taking no 
chances.
Beyond the guards at the entrance, steps led down to a dark passage that trailed 
far under the castle. Their footfalls echoed hollowly until they reached an 
ironbound door. Hunt knocked his knuckles on the oaken frame. A small panel 
opened, and a scarred face peered out—the mute dungeon keep, Gost. The 
disfigured man grunted in recognition, the rattle of keys sounded, and the door 
opened with a scream of rusted hinges. The scarred man waved them in.
“Thank you, Gost,” Hunt said.
The dungeon keep nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed; a scrabbled growth of beard 
marked his chin. Kast knew his story. The heavy-limbed fellow had endured 
tortures beyond speaking in these very dungeons during the occupation by the 
Dark Lord’s forces, including having his tongue cut out. Fear again shone bright 
in the man’s eyes now: Gost had not been happy to have his warren of cells 
become a vault for the ebon’stone eggs.
Kast couldn’t blame him. Even in this room, one could sense the clutch: a 
prickling of the tiny hairs over one’s body, a thickness to the air that felt 
oily. From the worn condition of the man, Kast doubted sleep came easy here.
Bowing, Gost led them across the room that doubled as his living space. He used 
his keys to unlock the far door, the entrance to the main dungeons.
Once through, Kast motioned to the door being locked behind them. “Did Gost 
notice anything last night when the theft occurred?”
Hunt shook his head. “The keep had let no one through his room since the change 
of guard just before midnight.”
“Then how did the thief get down here?”
“I couldn’t say, unless Gost was part of the conspiracy.”
“I don’t believe he’d side with the Black Heart, not after the suffering he 
endured here.”
“Then maybe he was duped… or enthralled.”
Kast shook his head as they crossed down the rows of cells. Ahead, at
t 8 Wit‘ ch Star the end of the passage, torches blazed. Men milled, a dozen, 
all Blood-riders, Hunt’s own men.
Hunt nodded to the captain of the guard. “Everything secure, Wrent?” The man 
nodded, standing straight, shoulders thrown back. “We’ve let no one in or out, 
as you instructed.” Kast recognized the man as Hunt’s cousin. His warrior’s 
braid reached to his waist, the sign of many successful battles. He also bore a 
scar across his seahawk tattoo, a pale slash as if the hawk’s throat had been 
cut.
Hunt jangled a set of keys from a pocket and stepped to the door. Kast followed 
along with Wrent. The cell door, a stout construction of fire-hardened oak 
banded in iron with a small barred window, was doubly locked. It took one of 
Hunt’s keys and one of Wrent’s to free the way.
As they unlocked the door, Kast again wondered how anyone could have stolen the 
two eggs. Even with the aid of the mer’ai on duty last night, how had the thief 
gotten past Gost? How had the locks been managed? It seemed an impossible theft.
Kast could fathom only one explanation. Since Sy-wen’s corruption, he had 
investigated the accounts of the malignant tentacled creatures, from Tok and his 
experiences aboard Captain Jarplin’s ship, to Elena and her “cure” of Brother 
Flint. One thing seemed clear: Once corrupted with the beasts, there was some 
malignant connection among those infected, a demonic link between the creatures 
that allowed communication. If this was so, then with the Brotherhood of 
Scholars tainted, Sy-wen would have access to their knowledge of A’loa Glen and 
its castle, including its maze of secret passages and tunnels. Could she use 
this knowledge to slip past the safeguards and steal the eggs? And what other 
evil could she have achieved already? The thought chilled him.
The creak of hinges drew his attention as Wrent hauled the heavy door open. The 
prickling sensation swelled, like spiders skittering across bare skin. The 
others in the hall, all battle-hard men, took a step away.
Hunt grabbed a torch from the wall. “Keep your guard up while the way is 
unbarred. Don’t let anyone near.” Wrent saluted. “It will be done.”
Hunt led the way through the door with his torch, and Wrent closed the door 
behind them. Kast studied the dim room. He had chosen this cell because it was 
large enough to hold the entire clutch of a hundred eggs and had been carved 
from the stone of the island itself, solid rock all around. Hunt’s torch 
flickered shadows on the walls.
Eggs lay everywhere in neat stacks, like the nesting grounds of some foul flock. 
The biggest pile, a pyramid, stood in the room’s center, reaching to the ceiling 
itself. The heap of ebon’stone absorbed the torchlight, casting no reflection. 
Even the room’s scant warmth seemed to be sucked away by the clutch, leaving the 
air cold. Their breaths blew white with each exhalation. “The missing eggs were 
taken from over here.” Hunt circled to the far side, where one of the smaller 
piles was clearly lower than the others. “And the vanished eggs aren’t elsewhere 
in the room?”
“I counted twice,” Hunt said. “And on the second count, I found this.” The tall 
Bloodrider dropped to a knee beside a neighboring pile. He lowered his torch and 
pointed to the stack’s base. Something was lodged there. “I didn’t want to 
disturb it before you saw it yourself.”
Kast bent down. It was a scrap of cloth. He reached and fingered the material. 
His breath caught in his throat. Shar’tskjn. His fingers yanked the material 
free, held it closer to the torch. “It’s Sy-wen’s.”
“Are you sure?” Kast could only nod.
Hunt straightened, standing. “I’m sorry, Kast. I know how this must fire your 
blood. I, too, would be furious.”
Kast had to turn away, not to hide his anger, but his joy. His fingers closed 
over the scrap of sharkskin. She was still here!
Hunt offered further words of consolation, but Kast remained deaf to them. He 
raised the bit of leathery cloth to his nose and breathed in the faint scent of 
sea salt and the hint of Sy-wen’s skin. My love…
“… all the mer’ai on duty.” Hunt’s words slowly intruded. “I’ll have them 
rounded up again.”
Kast lowered the scrap and nodded. Hunt led the way back toward the door. As 
they neared it, they heard the scrape of a sliding bolt. Hunt glanced back to 
Kast with pinched brows—then the clash of steel sounded from beyond the room. 
Cries arose.
Both men rushed forward. Hunt yanked on the handle, but the way was locked. 
“Wrent!”
Kast pushed to the small, barred window. By the dim torchlight, he watched the 
quick slaughter of five Bloodriders, set upon by their own brothers. Curved 
daggers sliced throats open, spilling rivers of spurting blood. Bodies were 
impaled on pikes and swords. In a matter of moments, the dead lay strewn, 
entrails oozing from deep wounds, blood seeping into wide black pools on the 
stone.
Wrent’s face suddenly appeared at the window, blocking the view. The warrior now 
wore a wide leer, froth at the corner of his lips.
°
“Wrent! What have you done?” Hunt tried to reach through the bars, but he could 
not even get his fists between the iron.
Kast pulled him back with one hand and slid his sword out with the other. “He’s 
corrupted. It’s not the mer’ai that were the traitors, but our own men.”
Wrent continued to leer.
“Then why did Wrent alert me to the missing eggs?”
Kast stared down at the scrap of sharkskin. “So you’d find this and fetch me 
here. It’s a trap.”
As if to confirm this, a large crac’t sounded behind them, as if a stone had 
been shattered by a hammer. Both men turned to the center pile of eggs.
… crac’t… cracky… crac’t...
“They’re hatching,” Kast said.
The pile shook before them. The topmost egg in the pyramid toppled from its 
perch and bounced to the floor. As it struck and rolled near them, it split 
open, steaming green into the cold air. Fist-sized globs of gelatinous slime 
splattered out in all directions, striking the floor and walls with wet slaps.
One struck Hunt’s leg, clinging to it. He smacked it away with the butt of his 
torch and danced back. “Sweet Mother!”
On the floor, the offending glob sprouted tentacles and began to hop, like a 
sick toad.
“Stand back!” Kast warned.
All around—on floor, ceiling, and walls—the other scattered fists of slime grew 
wormy appendages and questing tentacles.
Hunt thrust out his torch, ready to defend with his flame. But instead of 
deterring the creatures, the brand’s heat seemed to attract them. Their moist 
feelers all swung in unison toward the heat, and they rolled and slimed their 
way forward.
“We have to get out of here,” Hunt said as more eggs cracked throughout the 
cell.
“There’s no escape,” Kast said calmly, ready with his sword.
Hunt’s voice edged toward panic. “Why didn’t the guards just slay us?
Why lure us here?“
A new voice, full of mirth, intruded behind them. “Because we need a dragon, 
Brother Hunt.”
Kast swung around. At the barred window, the leering face of Wrent had been 
replaced by another. Kast’s heart burst at the sight of those sea-blue eyes and 
the pale face framed in deep green hair. Despite the danger, Kast felt a surge 
of relief. “Sy-wen…”
As EVENING NEARED, PRINCE TyRUS LOWERED HIS SPYGLASS AND CALLED
down from the Blac’t Folly’s crow’s nest. He had to grip the edge of the nest to 
keep from falling headlong to the deck of his ship. “Signal fires to the north!” 
he yelled to his first mate. “Turn us into the next cove.”
He straightened, knowing his order would be obeyed. His legs easily rode the 
teeter of the ship’s central mast as he swayed atop his perch. His face burned 
from the days of salt and wind. The coast lay a quarter league away. Here in the 
far north, the shore was an unbroken cliff face topped by storm-burned pines 
twisted into agonized shapes by the ceaseless winds that swept across the Bay of 
T’lek.
As sails snapped and the ship edged nearer the coastal cliffs, Tyrus focused his 
spyglass on the bonfire atop the cliff face. He sought the makers of the signal 
blaze, praying to see the squat forms of d’warves, but nothing moved. He made 
out a small village beyond the fire. The hamlet lay in ruins: chimneys toppled, 
roofs collapsed, walls scorched from old blazes. But despite the abandoned look 
to the town, a fresh pyre smoked into the darkening skies. It was clearly a 
signal meant for seafarers, but who had set it and why? Tyrus searched with his 
spyglass and found no answer.
Tyrus dared not pass by without sending a shore party to investigate. For the 
past four days, he and his crew had been scouring the coastline for any sign of 
Wennar and his d’warf party. Every morning he sent out crows, and each evening 
they returned to the ship with the same messages still attached to their legs, 
unread, untouched.
“Mother above, where are you?” he muttered as he searched.
The main battle fleet was two days out from these same waters. If need be, the 
combined fleets would attack the island on their own, but the plan had been for 
the d’warf army to drive north through the Stone Forest. Then while the fleets 
attacked from the south, the d’warves would charge over the arch of volcanic 
stone that connected the island’s northern coast to the mainland.
Now the plan was in jeopardy.
Growling his frustration, Tyrus slammed his spyglass closed and pulled open the 
hatch to the crow’s nest. He clambered down the rope ladder.
His first mate, Blyth, met him at the foot of the mast. The shaven-headed pirate 
was tall and wiry, a whip of a man whose tongue was as sharp as his sword. He 
wore a cutlass over one shoulder, and a bolo on his other hip. “Is it the d’warf 
army?”
“Can’t say… but we have to check it out. It’s the first sign of life we’ve seen 
in days.”
Blyth nodded. “We should watch our arses, though. Something don’t strike me 
right about this place.”
Tyrus trusted his first mate’s instincts. “How so?” Blyth pointed to the 
bonfire. It disappeared around the point as the ship entered the sheltered cove. 
“Someone goes to all the trouble to set a fire like that, then where are they?”
A call sounded from the prow. “Dockworks ahead!” Tyrus and Blyth hurried forward 
and joined the seaman whose duty it was to watch for shoals and reefs. He 
pointed to the base of the cove’s cliffs, and a set of four piers, or what 
remained of them. Pilings jutted from the waters like broken teeth. Bits of 
planking clung to some. The damage seemed at least a winter old.
“No one’s been fishing out of this hole in a while,” Blyth mumbled. “Drop anchor 
here,” Tyrus ordered. “We’ll take a party ashore in one of the longboats. We’ll 
take another three men. That’ll leave an even dozen left to guard the ship.”
“Aye.” Blyth turned to obey, already shouting commands. Tyrus studied the lay of 
the land as sails were reefed and the ship slowed. In the shadow of the cove’s 
cliffs, the last of the sun’s glow disappeared. Evening had already claimed the 
small bay. He stared at the stone walls. A heavy mist clung in patches, 
promising the night to come to be foggy and damp. They’d best make short work of 
this search; he didn’t want the Blac’t Folly to be trapped by the icy, blinding 
fogs of this northern clime.
Tyrus wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders as the cold sucked at his 
warmth. It was hard to believe that midsummer was only a few days away. Here in 
the far north, winter never truly let go. On their search through T’lek Bay, 
they had even seen ice floes drifting south, bobbing in the current, flowing 
down from the Northern Wastes as the ice pack broke apart from the spring thaw. 
It made traveling these summer seas especially treacherous… and the dense fog 
only added to the danger. The creak of rope on wheel sounded to the starboard 
side as the longboat was lowered. It landed with a muffled splash. Rope ladders 
were tossed over rails.
Blyth appeared at his side. “All set, Captain.”
“Who’s coming ashore with us?”
“Sticks, Hurl, and Fletch.”
Tyrus nodded, watching the trio gather, clapping each other on the shoulders and 
checking weapons. Sticks was the largest of the pirates, bowlegged, with arms as 
thick around as any og’re’s. His frame was not suited to the delicacy of the 
sword—he preferred the pair of ironwood clubs hooked to his belt, studded with 
steel.
At his side, Hurl stood with a sharpening stone, honing the edges of his hand 
axes. Blue-eyed with straw-colored hair, he hailed from these same northern 
lands. He had seen his family slaughtered by the dog soldiers of the Gul’gotha, 
leaving him an orphan on the cold, hard streets of Penryn. He bore no love for 
the denizens of Blackhall.
And, of course, ever at Hurl’s side was Fletch. The two were inseparable, one 
dark, one light, tied by bonds deeper than any brothers‘. The black-haired 
Steppeman knelt on one knee, stringing his bow. He seldom spoke, but there was 
no better archer than the dark-eyed man.
Blyth had chosen well, picking a party whose skills were diverse and 
complementary. If trouble arose, Tyrus had little doubt they could handle it.
Satisfied, he crossed to the shore party with Blyth. “Let’s load up!”
The group clambered down the ladders to the longboats. Hurl and Fletch took the 
oars, while Sticks hunched in the stern, manning the rudder. From the bow, Tyrus 
and Blyth watched the waters ahead for any dangerous shoals or reefs.
Blyth spoke as they crossed into the bay. “You needn’t have come, Captain. We 
could scout these lands on our own.”
Tyrus remained silent. His first mate was right.
“And even if it were a captain’s duty,” Blyth continued more softly, “it sure as 
the Mother’s sweet teat isn’t a prince’s.”
Tyrus grimaced. Blyth had been at his side since he had first stumbled into Port 
Rawl, full of anger, sorrow, and spite. The bloody planks of the corsairs had 
suited him fine to vent his bile upon the seas. But now the world again called 
him to duty. The mantle of Castle Mryl was his to bear, left to him by his 
father. But deep in his heart, he wondered if he had the strength to be a king’s 
son, his father’s son.
“You can’t hide forever among us pirates,” Blyth mumbled under his breath.
Tyrus sighed. “Leave be.”
His first mate and friend shrugged. “For now, Captain… for now.”
As true night closed in, they maneuvered through the shallows to the remains of 
the village docks. They tied up to a piling and climbed onto the crumbled end of 
a stone jetty. A steep stair, carved from the rock of the cliffs, led up toward 
the village.
Tyrus eyed the climb sourly. Mists had already grown dense as evening fog rolled 
in from the sea, thickening against the shore. The top of the cliffs could no 
longer be seen, but the glow from the signal fire lit a patch of fog.
“Let’s be done with this business as quickly as possible,” Tyrus mumbled.
No one argued.
The climb proved even trickier than expected. Besides the damp from the mists, 
algae and moss covered each step, as slippery as ice.
“No one’s used these stairs in ages,” Blyth said.
Tyrus agreed. Any good townsfolk would maintain the steps with salt and 
moss-killer. The state of the stairs was not a heartening sign.
“Then who set the fire?” Hurl asked.
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Tyrus said. “That bonfire didn’t set 
itself.”
At long last, they reached the top and found a cobbled thoroughfare stretching 
toward the village, dark and silent. By now, the fog lay like a smothering 
blanket. They entered the small town cautiously, weapons in hand. Nothing moved 
but the flickering glow of the fire beyond the village.
The party signaled each other with practiced hand gestures. Tyrus, Blyth, and 
Sticks took one side of the street. Hurl and Fletch edged along the other side. 
They moved with care, ears pricked, muscles tense, weapons ready.
Every structure they passed showed signs of damage: shattered windows, 
storefronts singed with soot, upper stories collapsed into lower. Clearly the 
town had been laid to waste, but amid all the devastation, something was plainly 
missing.
“The town’s a graveyard,” Blyth muttered, “but where are the dead?” There were 
no bodies, not a single one, not even the bones of those who had died here.
Tyrus frowned. “Maybe those that survived buried their dead before moving on.”
Blyth raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’d more believe carrion feeders. At 
least one winter has passed since whatever befell this hamlet. The woods around 
here are full of starving wolves.”
“You’d see nests of gnawed bones, then.”
“Maybe if we searched the buildings, you’d find such things.” Blyth shrugged, as 
if dismissing the subject. The past was the past. What did it matter now?
Tyrus, though, couldn’t let it go. What had happened here? Who had set the fire, 
and why?
They passed the town square, now a ruin. Beyond its edge lay the open cliffs and 
the bonfire, its flames licking into the foggy night over the shattered rooftops 
of the last buildings. Even the crackle of its logs echoed out to them. The 
group closed tighter as they slipped to the edge of town.
There lay a small cliffside park, edged by a flagstone wall. An overgrown garden 
of roses and holly bushes lined stone paths. There was even a tiny, raftered 
pavilion, untouched by the destruction. A statue guarded the entrance to the 
park. It stood unmolested, except for the stain of the bird droppings and the 
moss hanging from its stony limbs.
Hurl stopped before it, his head quirked to the side. He reached and gently 
pulled away a few lengths of moss. The features of the granite statue were worn 
by rain and wind, but a dark glower could still be seen. The figure stood with 
his arms crossed, clearly guarding, standing post. “The Stone Magus,” he mumbled 
with a trace of worry.
“What’s that?” Tyrus asked.
He shook his head and muttered under his breath, then stepped around the statue 
and studied the park. Other statues dotted the overgrown landscape, some large, 
some small.
All other eyes were drawn to the park’s center, where a blaze as tall as two men 
threw back the dark and the fog. It was a heartening sight after the gloom of 
the ravaged village. Even from across the grounds, the warmth of the fire was 
felt. After a moment of silent study, the party drew toward its light and heat 
like so many moths.
Still, Tyrus knew better than to let his guard down. His gaze swept the park, 
the pavilion, the last edges of the town. Nothing moved. Nothing threatened.
Ahead, logs shifted in the fire, popping and cracking like some old man shifting 
his bones in a chair. The noise filled the hollow silence.
Tyrus signaled his men to fan out to either side. Blyth remained with him, while 
the others spread across the park and approached the fire from all sides.
As he searched, Tyrus wished he had his ancient family sword, the length of 
Mrylian steel with the snow panther pommel. But he had left it with Krai, who 
carried it to his grave, a symbol of a blood oath between Castle Mryl and the 
mountain man’s lost people. Now the prince bore a sword from the armory of A’loa 
Glen, a fine and ancient blade, but one that seemed crude compared to the 
craftsmanship of the former. His fingers tightened on the hilt. A true swordsman 
made do with the weapons at hand, he told himself.
A call drew his attention to where Hurl and Fletch stood before another statue. 
Fletch waved his bow, indicating they should all gather.
Tyrus marched over.
It was a statue of black granite, an amazing representation of a deer, its head 
bent to nibble at a rosebush.
Fletch reached toward the stone, but Hurl batted his hand away. He turned to 
Tyrus, “We have to leave.” Tyrus frowned. “Why?”
Hurl waved an arm. “Look around!” The whites of his eyes shone with growing 
panic. He crossed swiftly to a statue of a pair of children hiding behind a 
bush. On a casual glance, it appeared they were playing hide-and-seek, but on 
closer inspection, the terror on their faces told another story. The two 
clutched each other in fright.
Tyrus crinkled his brow, glancing to neighboring statues: a man frozen in 
midrun, a trio of weeping maids, an elder on his knees. “I don’t understand,” he 
said.
“They’re the villagers!” Hurl cried. “Frozen in stone.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Blyth grumbled.
Hurl continued. “The statue at the entrance—it’s the Stone Magus. He’s marked 
this park as his own.”
“Why? Who is this Magus?” Tyrus asked.
“We must leave—now!” Hurl began to head away.
Blyth blocked him. “The captain asked you a question, Mate.” The threat was 
clear in his voice.
Hurl still looked ready to bolt, but Fletch appeared at his shoulder and placed 
a hand on his arm. His touch calmed the man somewhat, but he still trembled.
Tyrus moved nearer. “Tell us of this Magus. I’ve never heard of such a man.”
“You’ve lived your life on the other side of the Teeth or in Port Rawl, not in 
the shadows of Blackhall like my people.” Hurl’s eyes darted at each flickering 
shadow. “We northerners here have a saying: ‘A silent tongue speaks loudly.’ ”
“Now is no time for silent tongues,” Tyrus intoned. “Tell us what you know of 
the Stone Magus. Is he friend or foe?”
Hurl frowned. “Both, neither—I don’t know. I only know pieces of stories. I 
thought them fireside fancies.” He waved an arm around him. “But this, and the 
statue at the entrance—it’s right out of those tales.”
“Maybe you’d better tell us these stories.”
A final tremor passed through Hurl. He touched his friend’s hand, drawing 
strength and collecting himself; his voice was stronger when next he spoke. “The 
stories of the Magus stretch far back, to the time when the Stone Forest was 
green and Blackhall never darkened our shores.”
“Was there ever such a time?” Blyth muttered dourly.
“There was,” Hurl said. “In the distant past, this northernmost forest was 
revered by all. It was rich in deer, rabbit, and fox, a spot of green when all 
the world turned to snow and ice in winter, and a cool bower from the summer’s 
heat. But for all its wonders, there was something unsettling about the dark 
wood, rumors of strange laughter, of mischief played on those that overnighted, 
of floating lights to mislead the unsuspecting, even sightings of tiny folk no 
larger than one’s hand—the fae-nee, they were called.”
Blyth shook his head. “Wives’ tales.”
Hurl ignored him. “With such stories, none dared make their home in that dark 
wood except one.”
“The Magus,” Tyrus guessed.
Hurl nodded, still watching the park. “Deep in the wood, a great healer kept a 
homestead, a place where even the animals of the forest would go for a touch of 
his hand. He held the trees of the forest in deep reverence, so he made his home 
inside a hillside, in a warren of chambers lined by stone, warmed by many 
hearths, bright from windows that opened right through the hillside. He kept his 
home there for as far back as any could remember.”
Sticks spoke. For such a large man, he had a very soft voice. “And the wee folk 
didn’t bother him in their forest?”
“Ah, there’s the rub. For some say the fae-nee were the children of the Magus.”
“What?” Blyth blurted.
Hurl ignored the first mate. “In his loneliness, it was said he carved tiny men 
and women out of the wood of his homeland trees. And with his healing touch and 
deep love of forest, he brought the figures to life.”
“Tiny wood people,” Blyth scoffed. “Why are we wasting time with such addled 
stories? I thought we were looking for who set this fire.”
Tyrus frowned and waved for Hurl to continue. “What became of this Magus?” n
Hurl rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Blackhall. That’s what became of him. 
When the volcano erupted off the northern coasts, its ash and heat seared the 
forests, turning wood to stone. The Magus was never seen again.”
“And that’s the end of your story?” Blyth threw his arms in the air. Hurl shook 
his head. “No. A century later, it begins again. People began to tell tales of 
someone living in the stone forest. A figure of stone, like the forest, but one 
that stalked its dead bower with vengeance in its cold heart.”
“The Stone Magus,” Tyrus said.
Hurl nodded. “A sect of worshipers formed, and said they could call upon the 
Stone Magus to protect a home or village.”
“And you think he was called here?”
Hurl stared back at the ruined village shrouded in mist. His voice dropped to a 
whisper. “Maybe he was. Maybe the Magus could turn flesh to stone with a 
glance.” The man’s gaze settled back to the pair of huddled children. “But the 
stories vary. In many, the appearance of the Magus was as much a curse as a 
boon, destroying the good with the bad. Many of the tales end with these words: 
‘Remember and never forget, the Stone Magus’ heart has also gone to stone.’ ”
Tyrus frowned and turned to the fire blazing in the park’s center. “Well, Stone 
Magus or not, someone’s been here recently, and I won’t leave until I find out 
more.” Tyrus waved back to the fires. “Let’s see if we can discover who set this 
blaze and be done with this place.”
“Aye, Captain.” Blyth and the others circled through the park and again 
approached the fire from all directions. Five pairs of eyes studied the empty 
grounds and took up posts with their backs against the fire. Shadows cast out in 
all directions. Blyth frowned. “What now?”
“I guess we’ve been too subtle in our approach. Maybe something more bold.” 
Tyrus cleared his throat, then filled his lungs. “Ho!” he bellowed out into the 
misty night. “We mean no harm! We seek news of lost companions! If whoever set 
this blaze is out there, we ask gently that you show yourselves!”
His pleaded words echoed out over the cliffs, unanswered.
Sticks spoke from the other side of the flames. “Maybe they fled when they saw 
us coming. After what happened to the village here, they may be shy of 
strangers.”
Tyrus sighed. If Sticks was right, any hope to gain knowledge of the fate of 
Wennar and his army ended here. But whoever had set the mighty blaze had done so 
to attract a passing eye: This was no tiny campfire, but a beacon set against 
the night. So why hide now?
Tyrus widened his stance and studied the park. Had some surviving member of the 
Magus’ sect set this bonfire as a simple act of worship, then moved on? Was 
their nighttime search so much wasted effort? Or was there something more going 
on? He glanced back to Hurl. “This Magus, when did—?”
A muffled explosion erupted behind them, followed by a flare from beyond the 
cliffs. All eyes turned to the sea, where a sheet of fire stretched high into 
the sky with a roar, then collapsed down on itself.
“The ship!” Tyrus shouted.
They raced to the cliff’s edge. Tyrus skidded to a stop and looked down upon an 
awful sight. The Blacf{ Folly lay where it had anchored, but flames now consumed 
it, turning the ship into a bonfire brighter than the one behind them.
“Wh-what happened?” Blyth asked weakly.
The answer was soon revealed in the waters around the ship. Lit by the flames, 
dark shapes moved through the waters, swimming toward shore with webbed fingers 
and snaking tails.
Sticks pointed one of his clubs to the cliff face below. “There!”
Climbing toward them were a score of leathery shapes. The beasts scrambled up 
the slick rock, using clawed hands and feet. Spotted, the hairless creatures 
revealed their razored teeth. A hiss, like steam from a boiling kettle, rose 
from the waters and cliffs.
“Sea goblins!” Blyth swore harshly.
Tyrus now understood what had happened to the seaside township— the fate of the 
villagers, the lack of bodies. He risked a glance behind him and was not 
surprised to see black forms scuttling out from the ruins: hundreds of goblins. 
He heard the rattle of their flinty tail spikes, the poisonous weapons of the 
creatures’ females. The blaze here had nothing to do with the Stone Magus or 
lost d’warves. It was simply a crude lure to attract prey to these shores.
The village, the cliffs, the cove… it was a feeding nest for the drak’il, the 
sea-dwelling race of goblins—and Tyrus had led his men blindly into it.
The pack of drak’il closed in.
“We’re trapped,” Blyth said.
approach of bare feet, stepping deftly around the tentacled beasts. He knew 
those ankles and the tiny webs between the delicate toes.
Sy-wen spoke harshly. “Gather the simaltra. We’ll need as many as possible if we 
mean to take over both the castle and the Leviathan.”
“And the second shipment of eggs?” It was Wrent, the captain of the guard.
“They’ll be here by nightfall. So we must have the island secure, communication 
cut off, and the Leviathan under way by dawn. The new eggs must be seeded among 
the war fleet before they reach Blackhall.”
Kast’s mind ran with the plan laid out here. The demons meant to sally forth 
from A’loa Glen, wearing the faces of trusted friends, and spread their 
corruption among the fleet. Whether their plan succeeded or not, such an attack 
would weaken the fleet and sow distrust, just when the fleets needed to be at 
their most united.
He struggled for some way to raise a warning. But how? Distress must have been 
evident on his face. Sy-wen knelt beside him. She held one of the simaltra in 
one hand. “Do not fret, my love.” She bent forward. Kast gasped out one last 
plea. “Sy-wen…”
“Too late for begging, my love.”
Despite her words, Kast noted the smallest twitch of her left eye. He prayed to 
the Mother above that he was heard. He knew it was possible for the possessed to 
break free for brief moments. The elv’in captain of the befouled scoutship had 
managed to warn Meric and crash her own ship. Even Sy-wen had done it, back in 
the library. Now he needed her to do it one more time—for just a fleeting 
moment.
He met Sy-wen’s gaze as she reached out with the beast. He read what he could in 
her eyes, seeking some answer, some clue to salvation here. There had to be a 
reason the enemy needed Ragnar’k. He was sure it wasn’t just for the dragon’s 
strength. For all this effort, there had to be more purpose here.
Then, as he stared into the eyes of his love, he caught a glimmer of an answer. 
Shining clear from the demon were two emotions:/f<zr and relief.
Understanding bloomed. The dragon frightened them! Something about Ragnar’k 
threatened their plan.
Kast fought the weight on his chest and drew a large breath. He reached with all 
the love and strength in his heart and spoke the words he hoped Sy-wen would 
understand: “I have need of you!”
Again the left eye twitched. The hand that bore the tentacled simaltra paused, 
shaking ever so slightly.
“I need you, Sy-wen…” he pleaded again.
“Kast?” The voice was weak, a whisper on a wind, but it was thunder in his ears.
“Now, my love… I need you now!”
Her other hand lifted, reaching haltingly toward him. Then this hand also 
stopped. Sy-wen knelt, frozen in a silent war, with two hands held out—in one 
palm, a beast meant to corrupt, and in the other, an offer of salvation.
Kast struggled to move, but his body could not fight the poisons. All he could 
do was lift his neck, raising his cheek from the stone floor, offering his 
dragon tattoo. It took every last dreg of his strength. He had no more breath 
for words, only his eyes, pleading, full of his heart’s desire.
But once again, love failed against the chokehold of demonic magick.
Something died in Sy-wen’s eyes. The hand bearing the beast again reached 
foward. A leering smile twitched her lips. Kast leaned away, but his body was an 
anchor he could not escape. The simaltra touched him. The burning slime of the 
creature seared his face. He closed his eyes, knowing he had lost.
Sy-wen, I love you. Now and forever.
He waited for the slumber of the green gases to take him away from the horror 
and loss. But before he could escape, a flame, a thousandfold more intense than 
the touch of the simaltra, scorched his other cheek. He felt fingers trace his 
neck, spreading the fire, marking the borders of his dragon tattoo.
A whisper reached him through the pain, a balm that turned agony into ecstasy. 
“I have need of you…”
Tyrus and the others retreated to the bonfire. A thick fog had rolled in from 
the sea, blanketing the coastal cliffs and shrinking their world to the confines 
of the small park. Even the village had been swallowed by the mists.
But the real threat could not be so easily wiped away. A continual hiss of 
hunger and blood lust echoed from all sides. Occasional darker shadows skittered 
through the fog.
“If this soup grows any thicker,” Blyth mumbled, “we won’t see the weapons in 
our own hands.”
“Keep steady,” Tyrus warned. He raised his sword, judging the sea breeze. “The 
cover of the fog could prove as much a boon to us as to the goblins.”
“How so?” Hurl whispered. “Do you think we can slip away?”
“The drak’il are creatures of the sea. If we can sneak through town and make it 
to the woods beyond, the beasts might not give chase.”
Sticks rubbed his clubs together, the way a man might warm his hands. “If we 
can’t snea’t through town, then we’ll bludgeon our way through.”
Beyond the large man, Fletch knelt on one knee, his bow nocked with an arrow 
that tracked the drak’il as they closed around the park, worrying its edges. 
“Why don’t they come at us?” the Steppeman asked softly.
No one answered for a long breath, until Hurl spoke. “It’s the park. They sense 
the wrongness here. Their noses are sharper than ours.”
“Mother above,” Blyth snapped, “not more of that prattle about that cursed Stone 
Magus.”
Hurl’s face darkened, but Tyrus noted how the man’s eyes flicked to the statues 
of the two frightened children.
“Well, something’s keeping them back,” Fletch offered.
Blyth could not argue this fact. For the moment, the beasts were indeed delaying 
their attack. But the hissing grew steadily around them.
Still, their reluctance to attack made Tyrus wonder: if the drak’il were so 
reluctant to enter the park, why set the false signal fire here? A bonfire set 
elsewhere would have lured a ship just as easily from the sea.
In the fire behind him, logs shifted with a creaking crackle. Tyrus wondered if 
his initial suspicion that the goblins had set the fire could be wrong. But if 
the drak’il hadn’t set it, then who did, and why?
As he wondered, the sea breeze died away. The fog settled thicker— the moment 
Tyrus had been waiting for. “Ready, men,” he whispered, tightening his grip on 
his sword. “On my command, we’ll head for the northern wall, run its base, then 
over the wall and through town. We must keep hidden in the fog for as long as 
possible. Once discovered, they’ll be on us as thick as fleas on a mangy dog’s 
arse.”
Heads nodded all around.
Tyrus’ gaze fell on their archer. “Time to prove your skill, Master Fletch.” He 
pointed to the south. “Can you strike one of the drak’il over there?”
Fletch swung around. “Aye, Captain. It’ll be dead before it strikes the ground.”
“No,” Tyrus said. “Shoot for a leg or arm. We want the foul thing screeching 
like a wounded bird.”
Fletch nodded and took aim.
“On my word,” Tyrus said.
With one of their own wounded, the drak’il would flock to the south, believing 
their prey were trying to break free there. With the goblins distracted, Tyrus 
and his men would make their escape in the opposite direction.
“Ready,” he whispered. Dark shapes moved along the southern wall. “Now!”
With the skill of his Steppe clansmen, Fletch let loose an arrow. It whistled 
through the misty air, then struck with a soft thud of flesh. A wheedling cry of 
pain cut through the steady hiss.
“Go!” Tyrus whispered.
Leading the way, he raced surefooted down a flagstone path, weaving around 
bushes and statues. The others followed, as silent and fleet of foot as himself. 
Ahead, the waist-high wall grew clearer out of the mists.
Tyrus reached the wall and ran along its length, bent in a half crouch to limit 
his exposure. At the northeast corner of the park, he motioned the others over 
the short wall. He stood guard as Hurl, Fletch, and Blyth scrambled over. Sticks 
waved him to go next, crouching with his clubs.
Across the park, the squeals from the wounded goblin ended with a gurgled 
outburst. The drak’il were not kind to their wounded. Silence descended.
Time was running short.
Tyrus turned to the wall as a commotion erupted from the mists: scuffles, a 
single grunt, a quick squeak. Tyrus swore under his breath.
Blyth’s face appeared at the wall. “Goblin,” he mouthed apologetically. His eyes 
were sharp with wary concern.
Off to both sides, hoots and sharp hisses arose. Claws scrabbled on stone, 
drawing closer. The drak’il were circling back.
Tyrus vaulted the low wall, quickly followed by Sticks. A goblin lay at their 
feet. Its skull had been cleaved in two. Hurl knelt beside it, wiping his ax 
clean in a mound of grass.
Crouching, Tyrus pointed to the nearest street of the village. Again he led the 
way and raced across the scarp of bare dirt and grass. He dove into the shelter 
of the narrow street and flew down the broken, weedy cobbles. The avenue split 
and crisscrossed others. Tyrus didn’t stop to get his bearings at any forking or 
crossroads. He trusted his own instincts. Still, with the fog this thick, one 
deserted street looked like another.
Behind them, the drak’il horde erupted with shrieks and furious yips; their dead 
brethren must have been discovered. The furious hissing echoed along the streets 
and added to the confusion of direction. At times, it sounded as if they were 
running toward the cries, rather than away.
Didn’t I pass that burned shell of building already? Tyrus stumbled to a stop, 
panting silently, and searched around him. Three streets led from here.
Blyth slid beside him. “Captain?” he whispered. Tyrus shook his head, shrugging 
his lack of certainty. Somewhere nearby a slate roof tile crashed on 
cobblestone, but again the echoes played tricks with the sound. Tyrus searched 
the neighboring rooftops. Nothing but fog.
Blyth pointed his sword toward one street, motioning them in that direction. But 
Hurl stepped forward and nodded another way.
The strum of a bowstring sounded, and a goblin crashed to the stones from an 
upper-story window, an arrow feathering its eye. Fletch straightened from his 
crouch, drawing another arrow from his quiver.
Sticks waved his club toward all the streets, silently indicating that any way 
was better than staying where they were.
Tyrus couldn’t argue with the giant’s logic and took off.
They ran, sticking close to the walls. Streets flew by. Either the village had 
grown in this beastly fog, or they had indeed made some wrong turns. They should 
have been out the village and into the woods by now.
At least the screeches of the goblins had grown quieter. But that itself was 
unnerving. Their pace slowed again, eyes darting toward every dark shadow.
Then with a final few steps, the buildings vanished on either side. It took 
several more steps until they were sure they had cleared the village.
A gasp of relief escaped Blyth. Tyrus leaped ahead, hope surging. In his 
exuberance to escape the fog-bound trap, he ran headlong into a dark form that 
suddenly appeared out the mists. He could not catch his legs in time and fell at 
the stranger’s feet.
He sprang up to discover the lurker was not a living creature, but another 
statue. He stared up into a familiar face: the worn stone visage of a stern 
patriarch, standing with his arms crossed—the statue that guarded the entrance 
to the cliffside park. His heart sank to the bottom of his belly. “We’ve run 
full circle,” he gasped, turning to the others. Hurl backed a step. “No!”
Tyrus thought the Northman was simply voicing his despair, but Fletch gasped, 
his voice full of horror. “There’s no bonfire.”
Tyrus’ eyes widened. Even the fog shouldn’t hide the huge blaze, especially so 
close. He swung around to find the statue reaching for him. Stone-cold fingers 
latched onto his neck.
His men, hardened pirates and loyal to their captain, came to his aid with sword 
and ax. But the fingers continued to tighten, and he was lifted by his neck off 
the ground like a kitten. His vision darkened. The sword fell from his grip, but 
he fought and struggled, kicking and digging at the fingers that held him 
trapped—to no avail.
His airway closed off. His head pounded with each beat of his heart— and still 
the fingers squeezed. The world vanished into darkness. His legs and arms became 
as heavy as lead.
But even this assessment was proven wrong in the next heartbeat. “Sweet Mother…” 
Hurl’s voice rang in his pounding ears. “He’s turning the captain to stone!”
Sy-wen woke to herself, called forth by a dragon’s bellow. She blinked as the 
world of light and sound returned to her. The dark cave of malice in which she 
had been trapped no longer held her. She was free!
Ragnar’k roared under her as she straddled his neck. He dug his silvered claws 
into the dungeon floor and fanned his wings, knocking aside piled eggs. 
Tentacled creatures lurched away from the crush of his claws. Sy-wen felt 
burning on the bottoms of her feet, sharing the dragon’s senses as he squashed 
the foul things under his claws.
She sobbed aloud, both at the joy at being free and at the heartache that tore 
her being. She remembered the atrocities she had committed, the innocent blood 
on her hands. Possessed by the simaltra, she had watched all, experienced all, 
unable to control her body, while dark tendrils had wormed into her deepest 
secrets and memories. Her will had been ripped from her, replaced with something 
as black as the bottom of the deepest sea.
The dragon surged under her. She ducked from the low ceiling, almost crushed 
against it. Ragnar’k was wild, maddened by a rage unlike any she had felt 
before. He struck out with blind fury, bellowing, roaring. She felt drowned in 
his anger and grief, but underneath his seething emotions, she recognized the 
cause of his rage. Tied to his heart, she saw it was for herself the giant 
grieved.
“Ragnar’k,” she whispered. “I’m here. Calm yourself.” The dragon froze in 
midstrike, one claw raised. Bonded?
“Yes, my love. It is I.”
He lowered his claw. / dreamed you lost, swallowed by tentacles.
“It was not a dream,” she whispered, yet unsure what exactly had transpired. Why 
was she free again? She remembered sensing Kast’s need, the pleading of his 
eyes, the love in his heart. She had stretched all her energies to touch that 
heart.
Then the explosion of magick… and she was free. Her will was her own again.
Kast, my love.
A flow of warmth entered her from two hearts, dragon and man.
New tears filled her eyes, but she wiped them away and stared around the room. 
The dungeon door was wide open, but the men under the simaltra’s thrall had 
vanished. While possessed, she had not been privy to the innermost plots of the 
Dark Lord’s monsters, but she knew they feared Ragnar’k. They had hoped to 
possess Kast and thus hold the dragon in check. But with Ragnar’k free, they now 
retreated, withdrawing their dark tentacle from A’loa Glen. It was a small 
battle won, but a larger war still loomed.
As Sy-wen searched the room, she realized one other was missing.
Hunt was gone.
She recalled the penetration of the high keel’s son by the simaltra and 
despaired. It seemed she had been the only one freed by the dragon’s magick.
Closer at hand, the tentacled beasts retreated from the dragon’s assault, 
sliding along walls, floor, and ceiling. Ragnar’k stretched his neck and 
bellowed, warning them away.
But the effect was more profound.
Under the direct brunt of his roar, the creatures shriveled and dried as if 
under a searing wind. A large swath of the beasts dropped like dried clots from 
the stone wall and ceilings, dead.
Sy-wen stared in amazement. In the past, the trumpet of the dragon had been 
capable of stripping dark magicks from the skal’tum, the winged demons of the 
Black Heart. A similar magick must be at work here. The black spells of the 
beasts could not withstand the elemental energy of the dragon’s roar.
As the desiccated beasts fell, she sent her silent encouragement to her mount.
Ragnar’k swept the room with his bellows, scorching and charring the horde. He 
tromped through the cracked eggshells, rooting out any last ones and roaring 
them into oblivion. She sensed his satisfaction as he sifted through the rest of 
the room, sniffing and pawing.
“Is that all of them?” she asked, trusting her dragon’s keen nose.
Before he could answer, a commotion arose from the doorway. Guardsmen bristled 
at the threshold with spears. The dungeon keep, Gost, stood among them. He must 
have fetched the reinforcements when Ragnar’k had begun to bellow.
Sy-wen lifted an arm. “Stand back,” she warned. “It might not be safe to enter 
here yet.”
One of the guardsmen pushed forward. She recognized Py-ran, grandson of Master 
Edyll and lieutenant of the mer’ai forces still here, by-wen r
“Fear not.” She answered the suspicion in his eye. “The magick of Ragnar’k has 
broken the hold of my demon possessor.”
Py-ran’s gaze remained narrowed. No one lowered his spear.
She understood their fears. How could she be trusted?
Py-ran spoke. “We ran into a cadre of Bloodriders on the way down here. They 
attacked us, then fled through a hidden door.”
A Dre’rendi called from the cluster of guards, his voice shocked with horror. 
“One was Wrent, the captain of our guard. Another was the high keel’s own son.”
Sy-wen groaned. With Hunt’s knowledge of the Dre’rendi forces available to the 
Dark Lord, the danger to the fleet heading toward Black-hall was heightened. The 
escaped group had to be stopped before it was too late.
“I will loose the magick of the dragon,” Sy-wen said. “If you don’t believe my 
word, perhaps you will Kast’s.”
Sy-wen shifted from her seat, sliding from her perch to the stones. She was 
careful to keep one hand in contact with the dragon until she was ready. Spears 
and swords followed her every move.
She ignored them and turned to Ragnar’k. “I must let you go, my great giant.”
Bonded… you must not leave.
She heard the deep grief in his voice. “I must. I must prove that I’m free of 
the tentacles.”
But, bonded… you are not.
She frowned and sent her thoughts silently. / am my own woman.
No. The dragon’s thoughts were firm. / smell one /{not of tentacles still in
this stone cave.
“Where?” she said aloud.
Ragnar’k swung his nose and sniffed at her hair. Here… inside you. It still 
lives. It hides where I can’t reach it, but it still squirms, waiting.
Sy-wen sensed the truth of the dragon’s words. She wasn’t free. Though the 
magick of Ragnar’k had broken the simaltra’s hold on her, freeing her from her 
prison temporarily, it had failed to destroy the beast. It still lived inside 
her skull, waiting to claim her again.
Her fingers clutched a ridge of scale. She felt her legs weaken. Without the 
dragon, the evil inside her would take over again. Horror filled her at the 
realization that to free Kast, she must lose herself.
“Sy-wen?” Py-ran called from the doorway, clearly wondering at the delay.
She faced her fellow mer’ai. “I… I was mistaken,” she whispered, her chest 
hollow with despair. “I’m not free.” Py-ran frowned at her words. “Bring four of 
your men. Circle me with spears. I must not escape.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sy-wen shook her head. “When I free the dragon and call back Kast, I
will be possessed again.“
His face grew pale. “Then don’t let go of the dragon.”
Sy-wen waved her free arm around the cell. “And imprison all three of us here? 
Ragnar’k is too large to fit out the dungeon door.”
“There must be another way.”
Sy-wen leaned her forehead against the dragon. “We must trust Kast to find it.”
Stay with me, Ragnar’k urged. / will dig our way out of this stone cave. My 
heart is strong, my claws stronger.
Sy-wen smiled despite the tears. No one doubts your heart, my giant, but true 
freedom does not he that way.
Ragnar’k remained silent for a long time, but she sensed his understanding and 
his fear. It resonated with her own terror. She dreaded allowing herself to be 
trapped, alone again in that dark prison.
Not alone, Ragnar’k whispered in her heart. You’re never alone.
She again felt the flow of warmth from two hearts. She drew the heat and love 
around her like a blanket, wrapping it tight. Before her fears could overwhelm 
her, she stepped back, dropping her hand from the dragon’s side.
The world exploded into a whirlwind of black scale. Inner barriers 
shattered—then she was falling down a well, and cold tentacles unfurled to catch 
her.
She clutched the blanket of warm love to her heart with all her might. Save me… 
she whispered out to the emptiness.
Around Tyrus, the world hardened, as if the very air thickened—first to 
molasses, then to mortar, then to stone. He did not feel his limbs and body 
solidify into granite. He simply could no longer move. Through eyes that would 
not blink, he watched the stone statue slam his body down, driving his legs into 
the soft loam as a man might plant a fence post.
Even time seemed trapped. He watched his men harry the Stone Magus, who without 
a doubt this creature was. Their voices grew high-pitched; their efforts became 
frantic blurs. Time sped into the future, leaving Tyrus behind. Helpless, Tyrus 
watched his men, one after the other, succumb to the same spell. Statues grew 
around him: Blyth frozen with his sword raised, Sticks crouched with his clubs 
crossed in futile defense, Fletch frozen with his bow in midpull.
One last battle ensued. A blur that was Hurl fought the demon from his childhood 
tales. The Stone Magus bore the man’s ax chops with no reaction, his face fixed 
in the same stern glower.
Tyrus watched as a stone hand snapped out with a speed that belied the flow of 
time and grabbed Hurl by the wrist. The last of his men was about to succumb to 
the Magus’ spell.
He refused to let it happen; he fought the leaden air. If he could only move a 
finger, he sensed the spell would break. He fed his desire and will into one 
hand.
Move, damn you… move!
Before him, Hurl’s flesh and clothes grew the gray of unpolished granite, 
spreading inward from his struggling limbs. From the vantage in his eddy of 
time, the transformation seemed but a matter of heartbeats.
Tyrus continued to fight. He had no choice.
Hurl was slammed into the soil, a granite statue of horror and fury. The Stone 
Magus stared at his collection. His lips moved, and he uttered words of distaste 
and disgust. He must have been speaking very slowly, because the words were 
plain and clear. “Pirates… scum of the sea… you prey upon the carrion left 
behind by the Dark Lord. I curse your black hearts and leave you here to watch 
the world pass you forever by.”
Tyrus fought all the harder. We are not your enemy! he sent silently. We
fight the same cause!
But he was not heard. The stone figure turned away, moving at what appeared to 
Tyrus to be normal speed, but from the whip of clouds overhead, his gait must be 
slow, a creep of stone across the foggy field.
Wait! Tyrus yelled in his mind. He willed his stone limbs to move. A hand, a 
finger… anything. As he strained, his vision blackened with the effort. Sweet 
Mother, release me!
Laughter answered him, so very faint and far away. But it was not the voice of 
the Mother above. It was a deeper, grumbled sound that rose from the stony 
ground under him. Words followed, even fainter: Remember your roots, fool. The 
ridicule was blunted by a sense of peace and friendship. Who…?
Laughter again; this time it sounded more mournful. We are stone, you and I. One 
Roc’t, one Granite. Have you forgotten your oath-brother?
Tyrus felt his heart thud in his chest with recognition. Krai! His mind churned 
with confusion and shock. How… ?
I reach you through old allegiances bound in blood and sworn upon Mrylian steel. 
What is made of stone never truly dies, only slumbers. I heard you calling 
through the stone, crying for release from your own blood. Thick laughter 
grumbled. Such foolishness…
Tyrus felt his anger boil up. I’m trapped in a statue.
So? A sigh sounded, like a shifting of slabs of stone deep underground. You’ve 
lived too long among pirates and brigands. Have you forgotten your
birthright} You are Lord Tylamon Royson, heir and king of Castle Mryl, lord of 
the Northwall. Granite flows in your veins.
Tyrus inwardly frowned. At the Northwall perhaps, but not here. Whatever ground 
you wal’t, you are still a prince, Krai said with a finality that brooked no 
argument. Granite is granite. Tyrus searched his heart. Could this be true?
Krai’s voice began to fade, slipping back into the rocky roots of the world. 
Stone can never hold you prisoner. We are roc’t, you and I. What more magic’t do 
you need?
No further words followed. Krai?
There was no answer. But for the briefest flicker, Tyrus sensed something else, 
a touch of prophecy, the Scrying that was also his family’s birthright. Though 
the mountain man’s time had ended in this age, he would be called for one last, 
great task, in a time yet to come. So Tyrus did not call out to him. He released 
the giant man to his stony slumber. Guard my family sword well, man of the 
mountains. Wield it with honor.
Tyrus focused back on the present, surprised to see the Stone Magus only steps 
away, plodding slowly along.
Tyrus concentrated. He abandoned any hope of moving a hand or finger. Instead he 
drew his energy inside him, to his own heart. He remembered Castle Mryl, his 
home and love. At the Northwall, he had but to press his palms against the 
granite and will the living energy in the stone to transform him into stone, 
allowing him to flow into and through the great wall as if through water.
Granite is granite. The mountain man’s words echoed in his heart. Tyrus centered 
himself, remembering who he was, what blood ran in his veins. Then he touched 
the magick in his heart, sending out his desire and will.
Slowly he felt the air around him soften. Stone melted to mortar. His raised arm 
sank under its own weight.
Tyrus held his heart calm, allowing the world to continue to thaw. His limbs 
bent from their frozen postures. His lips parted; his chest expanded. He took a 
cautious step, pulling his feet from the soil. It was like slogging through 
molasses, but he was moving! And time slipped back to its normal groove, a 
well-worn rut. The scudding clouds slowed to a gentle roll across the skies.
Tyrus raised his limbs. They were still the dark gray of unpolished stone. The 
spell remained intact, but he was no longer a fixed statue. He craned his neck 
and spotted the Stone Magus. With time back to its regular flow, the Magus 
appeared to be merely a statue in the misty woods. But his limbs were indeed 
moving with a steady and determined grind as he climbed the rise.
Tyrus sheathed his stone sword and pursued his quarry. He would not leave his 
shipmates frozen. He would force the monster back, to free his friends. Tyrus 
climbed the rise, but his pace was only a fraction more hurried than the Magus‘. 
Granite was indeed granite, and though it flowed, it was still heavy. With each 
step, his feet sank into the leafy muck of the woodland floor. It was like 
marching through thick snow, but Tyrus plodded onward.
He was within a few lengths of the Magus when his quarry sensed the pursuit. The 
stern face swung in his direction.
Tyrus gained a small amount of satisfaction from the surprised look that spread 
like lava over the man’s stone face.
“How?” the Magus asked.
Tyrus hauled his way up the slope. “You are not the only one with stone in his 
blood.”
“Demon! Black-heart fiend…” The slurs flowed from the cold lips as the Magus 
faced him. Fingers folded into stone fists.
“I am no demon.” Tyrus drew even with him near the top of the rise. “It is not I 
who turns innocent men into statues and leaves them to die.”
Features hardened into a frown. “Innocent? I saw your ship. Pirates. 
Sea-sharks.” A growl rumbled up his rocky throat, and a hint of madness shone 
from his eyes. “You are no better than the beasts that infest the town.”
“You judge us falsely. We meant no harm. We came ashore only to look for lost 
friends.”
He sneered. “This is not your land. You and your lost friends don’t belong here. 
I will protect it as I see fit.” With the determination of a boulder rolling 
down a hill, he turned away.
Tyrus raised a hand to stop him, but it was knocked away with the sound of 
crashing rocks as the Magus continued to the top of the rise.
“You must lift your spell from my friends,” Tyrus called, dragging himself after 
the Magus. “I will pursue you to Blackball itself, if need be!”
The mention of the Dark Lord’s lair had the desired effect. The Magus swung 
around with a speed that belied his heavy stone limbs. “Never mention that foul 
place, that blight upon these northern woods.”
“You claim to protect these lands. Why then do you thwart the very men who bring 
war upon that dread island?”
Confusion mixed with suspicion in the other’s face.
Tyrus pressed. “It is you who do the Black Heart’s will here, not I!”
Anger built in the other. “Lies!” he spat.
Tyrus held out his hands. “Stone does not lie. If you are birthed from the Land 
as its avatar, then you will know truth written in granite.”
The Magus stared at his open palms, then slowly placed his own hands atop 
Tyrus‘.
Tyrus looked the other in the eye, granite meeting granite. He prayed the 
creature’s stony madness would clear enough for him to recognize the truth. He 
spoke boldly. “In ten days’ time, four armies will converge on Blackhall, 
bearing the magick of the Land itself. We will lay down our lives to break into 
that lair and wrest the wyrm from his black hole.”
With each word, the eyes of the Magus grew wider. The ravening glint faded for 
the moment. “You speak with a true tongue.”
Tyrus bit back a sigh of relief.
The Stone Magus lifted away his hands and covered his face. “Will this pain 
never end?”
Tyrus stepped closer to him. “It is not too late to change what you’ve wrought. 
Release the spell that holds my men.”
The Magus stumbled a few steps down the far side of the ridge. “I cannot.” His 
words were a choked wail.
Tyrus pursued him. “Why?”
The stone figure glanced over a shoulder. “There is no way to lift the spell. 
Once cast, it cannot be undone. It is why I return regularly to the village.”
Tyrus frowned; then understanding dawned on him. “The stone villagers… the 
bonfire…”
“A tragic mistake…” Rocky shoulders slumped in grief. “Two winters ago, the 
village here was attacked by dog soldiers and monsters. I was summoned near the 
end of the fighting. From the park, I cast out my magick. I was so blinded with 
rage at the murder and pillaging that I failed to notice my own energy spilling 
over into the grounds around me. The townsfolk were frozen in place in their own 
refuge.”
The Magus shook his head. “I destroyed the statues of the attackers, buried the 
dead, and built a fire both to mark the town as my own and to offer light and 
warmth to those I imprisoned falsely. It is all I can do. The drak’il moved in 
last winter. As long as the goblins left the park alone, I allowed them to haunt 
the ruins. They are simpleminded beasts, and their hunger guards the park as 
much as I do. I did not want the resting place of those poor villagers 
disturbed.”
Tyrus heard the pain in the other’s voice. Guilt weighed heavier than granite on 
this one’s heart. “There is no way to lift the curse?”
The other stood in a posture of grief. His silence was answer enough. Tyrus 
clenched his stone fingers. What was he to do now? No ship, no men…
Overhead, the skies had begun to lighten to the east. Much of the night had 
disappeared while he had stood frozen, trapped in the time eddy. Now a morning 
breeze began to shred the blanket of mists. Patches of starlight shone clear.
Tyrus stared out at the valley below him, lost in thought. Across the valley 
floor, starshine limned an empty stretch of felled forest. From his vantage, it 
appeared the woods below and across the next rise had been axed and harvested, 
leaving behind only a landscape of stumps that spread as far as the eye could 
see.
An entire forest of stumps.
Who would need so much wood?
The winds gusted over the ridge, driving away the fog. With the brighter light, 
Tyrus recognized the error of his assumption. He stared in horror below.
A voice spoke behind him. “At least I accomplished some good here,” the Stone 
Magus mumbled. “If nothing else, this dread legion of the Dark Lord will harm no 
others.”
Tyrus found himself frozen again, unable to move, a statue like the thousands 
down below.
At long last, he had found the d’warf army.
Kast knelt beside the dead boy in the north tower. Glassy eyes stared up at the 
hallway’s raftered ceiling, and a grimace of pain marked the cold lips. A slow 
seep of blood still flowed from the jagged slice through the boy’s throat. The 
kill had been recent.
Reaching out a hand, Kast closed the boy’s eyes. He had not thought his heart 
could be any heavier this night. “I’m sorry, Ty-lyn,” he said, remembering the 
lad’s exuberance, his youthful pride and joy in his dragon, He-lia. So much 
life… now gone forever.
Kast surveyed the other mer’ai, slain and strewn about the hall and across the 
entrance to the tower stairs. An ambush… The mer’ai group had been returning 
with the last eggs from the crashed scoutship. They would have had no reason to 
fear Hunt or the captain of the Bloodrider guard.
And there was no doubt who had attacked and murdered the group here. The 
handiwork was clearly Dre’rendi—and not a single ebon’stone egg remained.
Kast cursed under his breath. The murders here were his fault. He had delayed 
too long in the dungeons below, watching as Sy-wen had been bound hand and foot. 
She had fought, frothing, spouting foul oaths, laughing with mad glee. 
Heartsore, Kast had been too stunned to act quickly. He had not thought to send 
an immediate warning and guards to the mer’ai returning from the sea with the 
last eggs.
He stared down at the result of his shortsightedness. These days, blood was the 
wage of a single misstep. Kast stood and clenched his fists. No longer. It was 
time to bring the war to its rightful place.
Hurried steps sounded behind him. He turned to find Py-ran rushing toward him, 
flanked by three other mer’ai. “We followed their trail,” Py-ran said. “They 
made for the docks.”
“All of them?”
“We’re fairly certain. We talked to some folk in the streets.” The mer’ai 
warrior’s voice lowered. “But there are more bodies at the dock. One of the 
Dre’rendi wave-chasers was commandeered.”
Kast spat out a curse, pounding a fist on his sword hilt. “I want elv’in 
scoutships in the air and hunting for them immediately.”
“I’ve already spoken to the commander of the elv’in. He’s arranging a squad of 
pursuers.”
Kast nodded at the lieutenant’s efficiency. But he knew in his heart that there 
was little chance of finding Hunt and the others. The high keel’s son knew the 
maze of Archipelago’s islands better than anyone. They would lose themselves in 
the mist, and before the moon set, they would be in a new ship, taking one by 
force if necessary and scuttling the small wave-chaser. By tomorrow they would 
be gone.
But Kast did not succumb to frustration. It was time to stretch the game to a 
broader scope. From Sy-wen, he knew the plot of the possessed: to gather more 
eggs and sow them among the war fleet.
In such knowledge, there was power. Rather than whiling away energies in useless 
pursuit, it was time to lay a trap for the possessed, to meet them where they 
were going.
Kast turned to Py-ran. “Send word again to the elv’in commander. I need a ship 
ready by dawn.”
“To hunt the others?”
“No, I’m turning the island and its defenses over to you. Word of this betrayal 
and the potential danger must reach the fleet. With Xin failing to reach Tyrus 
this night, our lines of communication are down. I can’t risk such important 
information to the vagaries of a crow’s flight. I mean to take a ship myself to 
the fleet and set up defenses against the possessed.” The shock of his words 
darkened the other’s face. “But A’loa Glen… ?”
“I have full confidence in your abilities to hold the walls here, Lieutenant.”
“But—?”
Kast clapped the fellow on the shoulder, but he barely saw Py-ran standing 
before him any longer. His eyes were already staring through the walls and over 
the ramparts. In his heart, he knew the last assault had been waged in the 
dungeons here. The true battle had rolled over and past them, heading north, 
heading for Blackhall.
“They attacked here because they fear Ragnar’k,” he mumbled, recall-ing the hate 
in Sy-wen’s mad eyes. “But I will teach them the true meaning of fear.”
Py-ran backed a step with a half bow. “I will alert the commander immediately.”
Kast slowly unclenched a fist. He glanced to the ruin in the hall, his eyes 
settling on the pale face of a boy. Blood pooled around Ty-lyn. He remembered 
the youngster’s laugh, his bright smile, his simple, proud love of his jade 
dragon. Somewhere, echoing out over the black seas, a lone dragon wailed a 
mournful piping. It sang to the sorrow and pain in his own chest.
He turned away as his vision blurred; he wiped his eyes. There was only one 
answer for the bloodshed here: to make sure it never happened again.
He strode down the hall.
Dawn could not come soon enough.
Tyrus stood among the ranks of stone d’warves. The stars in the east-ern skies 
faded with the beginning of the new day’s light. In that strange twixt between 
night and morning, everything took on a silvery cast, as if this army of 
d’warves only waited for the morning light to wake them from this unnatural 
slumber.
Tyrus moved slowly down the ranks. He felt the granite eyes of the soldiers on 
him. He remembered what it was like to have the world harden around you, holding 
you trapped. He stared out at the row upon row, rank upon rank: foot soldier, 
ax-lord, lieutenant, and captain.
Somewhere in this vast army, Wennar, their commander, stood in this valley or 
upon the ridge. Tyrus sought to find him, to offer what consolations he could, 
to promise that this war upon the d’warves’ old slave-master would not end in 
this field of stone and granite.
“I did not know,” a quiet voice said behind him.
Tyrus closed his eyes. He had yet to find his way to forgiveness here.
“When last I heard of the d’warves,” the Stone Magus said, “they were the 
underlings of the Dark Lord, his hands and legs upon our lands. I thought only 
to protect.”
Tyrus turned to look upon the worn visage. “You were once a healer, if the 
stories I’ve heard are correct.” The prince waved his arm over the graveyard of 
living stone. “Do you see what your blind rage has wrought? It has taken life 
and twisted it most foully. How are your actions any more righteous than the 
Black Heart himself?”
“I didn’t know.”
Tyrus would not let this excuse stand. “Ignorance is the deadliest poison. The 
power you were granted was a responsibility placed in your hands. It was not for 
you to vent your own hurt upon this world. With power comes responsibility.”
The figure bent under the weight of his words. “I didn’t ask for this power.” 
The Magus straightened, holding out his stone hands. “I can’t feel anything. Not 
the wind on my face, not the rain. Not the brush of a hand on a cheek, not the 
softness of a child’s skin. Anything I touch turns to stone.”
Tyrus recognized a bottomless well of pain in the other’s eyes—and a madness 
that was barely kept in check. “Free me…” the man pleaded.
As Tyrus stared at the Magus, understanding came to him. It was not rage at the 
Dark Lord that fueled his rage, but simple loneliness. The Magus had lived all 
his life in these northern woods, a hermit dwelling in a hillside. But as 
isolated as he was, he had never been fully alone; the world could still touch 
him in all its myriad and intimate ways. But with the transformation, that had 
all changed. The Magus was as much trapped in stone as any other here. Locked 
away from the world, he had lost contact with it. He had forgotten what it meant 
to live and breathe. Tyrus remembered Hurl’s warning: Remember and never forget, 
the Stone Magus’ heart has also gone to stone. Those words were more prophetic 
than any imagined.
Tyrus might not be able to forgive, but he could pity. He stared at the statue 
with its arms raised in pleading. “We’ll find a way to free them,” he said, and 
motioned with his own granite arm. “The d’warves, my men, and the villagers.”
“It can’t be done,” the Magus said, his limbs lowering in defeat. Tyrus stared 
out at the army as the eastern skies grew brighter. To the north, hills appeared 
from the darkness. Bare, skeletal trees covered their slopes. It was the edge of 
the Stone Forest, the onetime home of the sad figure standing beside him.
“Tell me of the coming of Blackhall,” Tyrus said.
The Magus covered his face. “It was too awful a time. I don’t want to touch 
those memories again.”
“You must,” Tyrus said more harshly. He confronted the man, pulling one hand 
away from his face. “If there’s any hope to reverse your magick, I must know how 
your powers came to be.”
The Magus shook his head. “It was too dark a time to look upon.”
Tyrus shoved down his other arm. “Then look on this!” he shouted, and motioned 
to the stone army. “Thousands imprisoned by your hand, trapped in stone like 
you. Can you hear them crying for release? Can you feel their eyes begging?”
“No… no…” The Magus fell to his knees. He rocked in place. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do! And you owe them more than a bonfire at night and weepy words of 
sorrow. If the cost is to face your past, then you must pay it.”
The Magus continued to rock. His heavy knees furrowed the soil. Tyrus prayed he 
had not pushed the creature too far, driven him back into ravening madness.
Then slowly words tumbled from his stone lips. “I was gathering herbs from a 
woodland glen, anise and hawksbreath.” He lifted his hands to his nose. “I can 
still smell them on my fingers.”
Tyrus moved a step closer, though he feared touching the man, lest he draw him 
from these ancient memories.
“Then a great roar, like a thousand thunderstorms crashing together split the 
quiet. The ground shook, heaving up in great swells then falling again, as if 
the land itself had become a stormy sea. I was thrown down and clung to the soil 
with my fists, praying to the Mother above and the Land below. I thought my 
prayers answered when the quaking slowed and stopped. I rose and fled back to my 
hillside home. When I got there, I found all the windows shattered, my great oak 
door cracked in half. I went inside to see what was left of my home and 
belongings… Then…”
The rocking of the Magus became more frantic; a wail rose from his throat, 
boiling out as if from the turmoil inside the stone man.
“It is over,” Tyrus murmured. “You’re safe here.”
The figure seemed deaf, but after a moment, words keened through the cries. “A 
wind… a hot, searing, foul wind came screaming from the sea. It blasted every 
leaf from every tree. Saplings were uprooted. Older trees cracked and tumbled 
end over end. I fled and cowered in the root cellar, and still I could not 
escape the burn of the winds. It was impossible to breathe.” The Magus clutched 
at his throat as he rocked, gasping, choking.
“Calm yourself,” Tyrus urged. “The wind is gone, lost in the past.”
The Magus shook his head. “It’s never gone. I can still hear its howl in my 
ears. It is the scream of the damned.” His voice rose and took on a fevered 
edge.
Tyrus reached for the distressed man, but the Magus stopped rocking. His eyes 
were wide open, but Tyrus knew he was not seeing the world around him.
“Day became night as the wind screamed away. I fled my home, but the world was 
gone. A smoke that glowed with sick energies covered the skies and lands. Ash 
fell like rain. And far to the east, the skies glowed an angry red—the face of 
all that was evil in the world. I could not meet that gaze, so I dove back into 
my home. But there was no escape.”
Slowly the rocking started again. “The air sickened. The land shook. Wicked 
cries echoed down to me. I covered my head, but still they found me.” A new note 
entered his voice with these last words; it sounded like joy.
“Who found you?”
“My little ones… the fae-nee.”
Tyrus remembered Hurl’s story of the tiny carvings brought to life by the 
healer. Was it true? Or was this madness?
The Magus continued. “I had thought them surely destroyed, but they found me 
curled in my cellar. I went to greet them, but they were frightened. They fled… 
all but the first of the fae-nee that I created—Raal, a northern word for kjng.” 
The last was said with thick bitterness. “He forced me to look upon myself.”
“Look upon yourself?”
“He made me turn and see the form buried in ash at my feet.”
Tyrus frowned in confusion.
“Raal wiped away the ash and revealed the stone figure upon the floor of the 
root cellar. He made me stare at it.” As the Magus spoke, fingers rose and 
gently probed chin, cheekbones, and line of nose. “I hardly recognized my own 
face.”
Tyrus’ eyes widened.
“But there was no denying what lay on the cellar’s floor: my corpse. I was dead 
and hadn’t even known it. My spirit must have become lost in that volcanic fog, 
unable to escape to the Mother above. But Raal, curse him, made me face my own 
death.”
“What happened after that?”
“Raal called the other fae-nee to him. They circled both the body and my spirit 
and gave back what I had granted them.” A wail rose again. “I didn’t ask for 
it.”
“What did they give you?”
“Life,” the Stone Mage cried. “The life I had breathed into them, they returned 
to me a hundredfold.”
Tyrus weighed this claim. He had heard of elementals that could animate 
nonliving objects, some for days. But if the madman here was to be believed, he 
had imbued these creations of his, these fae-nee, with independent life.
“I was forced back into my body. And as such magick could enliven wood, so it 
did to stone. I rose from that cellar floor, alive again, but trapped in a shell 
of hard ash.”
“And your ability to change others into stone?”
The Magus shook his head. “I don’t know. It was wrong to cast a spell while 
there was so much corruption in the air. The fae-nee must have been affected by 
the black magick in that foul ash or the loathsome energies wafting through the 
blanket of glowing fog. But when I rose, I quickly discovered all I touched 
turned to stone. Over time, I learned it was a curse I could cast out from my 
body.” The Magus again covered his face. “But the cost… it was too high.”
“What cost?”
The Magus lowered his hands and glared at Tyrus. “Haven’t you been listening?” 
Madness laced his words. “The fae-nee gave me back what I gave them—their life! 
I woke to find nothing but whittled pieces of wood in the cellar. My children 
were gone!” The Magus clenched one fist. “Except for Raal. He still lived. He 
left me in the woods and said that when Blackhall sank again, I would be free to 
rest.”
“And what became of this Raal?”
The Magus gestured to the barren northern hills. “He’s in the Stone Forest, 
curse his eyes. Rebuilding his brethren.”
“The fae-nee ?”
“The spell did not only affect me,” the Magus said. “The warping of that magick 
changed Raal, too. He can now chisel petrified wood from the Stone Forest and 
grant it life, adding to his brethren, becoming a true king as I named him. But 
his children are not sweet and innocent. I’ve seen them. Though their flesh is 
as pale as the wood from which they came, there is something dark about them. I 
can’t even stand to look—” Tyrus cut him off. “You said their flesh is pale?”
The Magus turned from the hills to look at him. “You still aren’t listening! It 
was the warp of magick. I can change the living into stone. Raal can change 
stone into the living.”
Tyrus sensed the balance of forces here, a warp and weave of fearsome energies. 
He studied the hills stubbled with skeletal trees. The first rays of the sun 
glinted off the crystalline branches of the petrified forest. Deeper in the 
woods, mists moved through the trees, swirling like disembodied spirits.
Did an answer lay out there? Could Raal reverse what the Magus had wrought? And 
if he could, would he do so?
He turned to the Magus. “I want to meet this Raal.”
The stone figure glanced to him as if he were the mad one. “The fae-nee don’t 
tolerate strangers. As I said, they’ve grown dark of heart. I haven’t seen Raal 
in over two centuries.”
“Then it’s high time for a family reunion,” Tyrus said. “Let’s go pay your kin a 
visit.”
“No,” the Stone Magus said. “They’ll kill you.”
Tyrus patted the granite that made up his chest. “I’d like to see them try.” He 
faced the Stone Forest. “Take me to this king of the fae-nee.”
It was good to feel the rolling planks of a deck underfoot, even if the ship 
flew leagues above the true sea. Kast closed his eyes and felt the wind whipping 
through his hair, tugging at his cloak, shoving against his chest. Among the 
Dre’rendi, it was said the wind had teeth. This morning
Kast could feel its bite.
He kept one hand on the bow deck’s rail as the Ravenstving swept northward. They 
had favorable weather: a fierce southeaster blew out from the Blasted Shoals. 
Kast felt the energy in the air, a mix of lightning and sea salt. The elv’in 
captain, Lisla, was adding her own magick to fill the sails and steady the 
course. The plan was to reach the fleet in three days’ time, and it would take 
every bit of the captain’s talent to achieve this end.
They had left at dawn: a crew of elv’in warriors, a squad of Blood-riders, and 
Master Edyll of the mer’ai. They also bore one prisoner, trussed and locked in a 
small stateroom: Sy-wen. Kast could not leave her behind. In the war to come, 
Ragnar’k could be important, and she was the only one who could unlock the 
dragon inside him.
But there was another reason he hauled Sy-wen along on this journey: hope. 
Somewhere locked inside the evil was the one he loved. He gripped the rail, 
digging in his fingernails. He would find a way to free her or die trying. A 
hatch slammed open behind him, caught by the fierce winds and thrown wide as the 
small zo’ol tribesman climbed to the deck. Having lived among pirates, Xin was 
experienced with walking the deck of a storm-swept ship. He hurried toward Kast, 
not bothering with the safety ropes, bent against the wind. Shaven-headed, the 
tribesman’s single braid of hair was a flag behind him.
“I’ve reached Lord Tyrus!” he said breathlessly as he took a place beside Kast. 
The pale scar of an eye on his forehead seemed to glow with joy.
“He lives!”
“What news does he bear? How fares the fleet?”
Xin held up a hand. “I made only a flicker of contact. His sending is muffled, 
as if he speaks with his mouth covered. All I could understand was something 
about the d’warves. But he lives!”
“Is he with the fleet?”
The tribesman frowned. “No, I think he is alone.”
“Alone?”
Xin shrugged. “I will rest and try again later.”
Kast nodded, relieved. “I’ll need you to pass word to Joach.”
Xin fingered the shark tooth pendant around his neck. He used the talisman to 
communicate with Elena’s group. “I spoke with Joach before we departed. He knows 
we’re en route north.”
“And their group?”
“They expect to reach the og’re lands in another day or two. Travel is slowed by 
the waning elemental energies. Even my contact with the others weakens.”
Kast sighed. It was hard coordinating so many fronts with just messenger crows 
and a single shaman with the ability to farspeak. Now even his skills faltered. 
How he wished Xin could communicate with more than just Joach and Tyrus.
Xin spoke, sensing his frustration. “Such is the way of the wizen,” he 
explained, holding up his arms. “Two hands, right and left—those are the two 
ways a man may greet another. That is the limit of my magick.”
Kast patted the tribesman on the shoulder. “I know, Xin. And if wishes were 
coppers, we’d all be rich men.”
“I will do my best to reach Tyrus. But there is something else…”
Kast heard the hesitation in the other. “What is it?”
He glanced away. “The one who holds your heart… She is in danger.”
“I know. The tentacled creature—”
“No, it is more. My abilities to farspeak are tied to my deeper gift—to read 
another’s heart, not just his thoughts. The mind is less trustworthy than the 
heart.”
“And what have you sensed?”
“The creature nests in your love’s skull, coiled and holding her will trapped. 
But it is her heart that worries me. She loses hope. She knows that she can only 
be free if you are gone. In this, she despairs.”
“I will find a way to break this curse,” he said fiercely.
Xin placed a palm on Kast’s chest. “Your heart is an open book. I know your 
determination—and so does Sy-wen. Her fear above all else is that you will do 
something rash, something that will harm yourself, so she might be free.”
Kast glanced out over the rail. He remembered his promise a moment ago: to find 
a way to free her or die trying. He did not deny Xin’s words.
“She feels the same,” Xin said again, clearly reading what his heart held close. 
“She would rather die than see you come to harm. Corrupted as she is, she cannot 
see a way to hope. There is where the true danger to her lies.”
Frustrated and powerless, Kast felt tears well.
“Though her cell is deep in the ship’s hold, she remains a beacon to a wizen 
like myself. The creature’s madness is like kerosene thrown on fire; it shines 
like a blaze in the night. But at its heart rests a bastion of goodness and 
love. It has glowed as fierce as the fiery madness around it. But now…” His 
voice trailed off.
Kast spoke the words he knew to be true. He too had felt it. “It fades.”
“She allows herself to be consumed, like tinder in a blaze.” Kast took a 
shuddering breath and asked the question that terrified him. “Is there a way to 
stop it?”
Xin did not answer. Kast turned to him. The tribesman met his gaze. There was an 
answer in those eyes. “I must go to her,” Kast said. “You are both one heart. In 
that there is strength.” Since the incident in the dungeon, he had avoided any 
contact with Sy-wen, fearing it would unman him when he most needed to be 
strong.
“There is a storm unlike any other on the horizon,” Xin continued. “If you mean 
to face it, you’ll need all your heart.”
Kast glanced again to the sweep of sea and clouds. He took a deep breath, 
drawing strength from the salty winds, steeling himself for his meeting with 
Sy-wen.
Xin touched him on the arm. “I go to my cabin. If I learn anything new,
I’ll alert you immediately.“
“Thank you,” he mumbled as the tribesman departed. Once alone, Kast sought the 
dragon inside him. With each transformation, the line between the two thinned. 
He could sense Ragnar’k brooding. “She’ll need both of us,” he whispered to the 
dragon. “It will take both our hearts to bolster hers.”
A roar echoed through his being. Their wills were one.
Kast strode the planks to the middeck ladder. He clambered down and headed 
toward the stern hatch. Overhead, elv’in sailors hung from the rigging, calling 
to one another. The mainsail snapped angrily as an adjustment was made. The 
winds howled in protest. The ship bucked as if riding a wave crest, then sped 
faster. The captain plied her skies with the skill of the best seafarer, always 
seeking the best line, calculating, adapting.
Unlatching the stern hatch, Kast left the deck and the ship to her captain. He 
climbed down the stairs to the passageway below. It smelled musty after the free 
winds above, and foreign. The timbers used to build the elv’in ship came from 
lands other than Alasea. The resins were too sharp to the nose, discomfiting. 
And everywhere the air seemed to resonate with a whine just beyond the reach of 
ears, vibrations that tingled the smallest hairs. As much as the ship might 
appear like any other seafaring vessel, it was not.
Kast crossed down another deck. Down here lay the crews’ quarters and storage 
rooms. But one cabin had been converted into a makeshift prisoner cell.
At the end of the passage, two Bloodrider guards flanked the door— Garnek and 
Narn. They drew straighter at the sight of Kast. He crossed toward them, feeling 
the hum of the elemental-wrought iron keel under his feet.
Garnek stepped forward as he approached. “Do you need assistance, sirr
“I came to see Sy-wen.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned to Narn and nodded. The way was quickly unlocked, and the 
newly installed bar removed.
Kast passed between them, and Narn stepped to follow, a hand on his sword. “No,” 
Kast said. “I would visit her alone.”
“Sir, your own rules say none may visit the prisoner by themselves. A guard must 
be present.”
Kast paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder.
Narn’s eyes widened a fraction at the expression he found on the other’s face. 
“Of course, sir,” he mumbled, backing a step. “We’ll stand guard outside.”
Kast entered, then waited for the door to be locked and bolted behind him. A 
single oil lantern hung from a hook in a rafter. Set to the lowest flame, its 
meager light created more shadows than it vanquished.
Girding himself with a deep breath, he crossed to the room’s lone bed. Straw 
ticking covered the hard wood, and atop the bunk lay the girl he loved, each 
limb tied to one of the posts.
Kast did not bother to turn the flame higher in the lantern. What the dim light 
revealed already threatened to break his will.
Sy-wen had been stripped naked, the easier to keep her clean. A blanket had been 
tossed over her, but her thrashings had dislodged it. It lay crumpled on the 
floor beside the bed.
He bent and picked it up. Her eyes tracked his every movement, like some shark 
eyeing its prey, waiting to strike. Her hair lay like a tangle of seaweed on the 
pillow.
He shook out the wool blanket and swept it over her form. This kindness earned 
sharp laughter. “Join me, lover,” she rasped. Her lips were bloody, and froth 
flecked her chin. “There’s always room for another. Loosen these ropes and I’ll 
show you pleasures like you’ve never experienced before from this wench.”
Kast tried to close his ears to these words. “Sy-wen,” he said, speaking not to 
the thing on the bed, but to the mer’ai woman buried deep inside. He reached to 
touch her cheek, but the creature flung herself at him, snapping at his fingers 
like a starving cur.
He pulled back his hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sy-wen, I know you can 
hear me. You must not lose hope—not for your freedom, not for us.” But his own 
words sounded hollow. How could he recharge her confidence when his own ebbed to 
such a low tide? Laughter bubbled from the bed, mirthless and cold. Kast closed 
his eyes, his shoulders trembling with grief. It was wrong to come here. It was 
too hard. But deep inside him, a dragon roared. The simple, raw love of a beast 
for its bonded welled through him. He basked in its glow and discovered 
something that had never occurred to him.
Love did not have to be hard. It was a simple thing, uncomplicated, pure, and 
glorious. No matter the trappings, hardships, and entanglements, at its core, 
love was simply warmth, two hearts fueling one another, stoking a flame 
together.
Kast shoved aside all thoughts of tentacled creatures, great wars, and black 
magick. He listened to Ragnar’k roar, and deep inside him, he echoed this call 
of love, a chorus of two hearts. He found blind strength and stood.
Crossing to the lantern, he twisted the flame brighter. He would not hide in 
shadows any longer. He turned back to the bunk.
Sy-wen still sneered at him with disdain, but now he recognized the shine of her 
eyes, the fullness of her lower lip, the soft tones of her skin. But it wasn’t 
just her physicality; he saw her spirit, the heart that had stolen his. There 
was nothing so dark that it could dim that light. He sank back to the bed. 
Somewhere far away he heard the laughter and the slurs and curses.
But it fell on deaf ears. It was only mud on a diamond; he could easily wipe it 
away.
“Sy-wen,” he whispered, “I love you.”
He loosened the rope that bound her right wrist and drew her hand to his cheek. 
He ignored her attempts to break free; his fingers were iron on her wrist. He 
pulled her palm to his cheek, careful to avoid his dragon tattoo on the other. 
Nails dug at his skin, but they were worn and dull. He felt nothing.
“Sy-wen,” he murmured.
Slowly the fingers relaxed on his face. Her cold palm grew warm as it rested 
against his skin. He felt his love returned to him from afar, stoked from 
another’s heart.
“We are not lost to one another, not even now.” His voice was a breath, nothing 
more. “Nothing of any importance has been taken from us.” He pressed her palm 
more firmly to him. “This is all that matters. Us, together—that is a purity 
nothing can corrupt.”
The heat bloomed on his skin. Faint words reached him from the bed… love you…
Kast squeezed the fingers and drew them to his lips. He kissed her palm long and 
with a passion that melted away everything but his love. Time stretched forever. 
The moment became written on their spirits, to last them through the hardships 
to come.
Sy-wen…
Finally, a commotion at the door drew him away. Shouts erupted, followed by a 
small girl’s scream.
Kast sat up straight. A clawed hand swiped at his eyes, but his grip did not 
fail him. He forced Sy-wen’s arm down and re-bound the wrist to the bedpost.
He risked a touch to her cheek, but beyond the door, the childish cries of a 
small girl continued, accompanied by the furious anger of a young boy. Scowling, 
Kast crossed to the door and pounded on the oaken frame. “Unbar the way.”
A latch clanged, and wood scraped as the door was yanked open.
Beyond the threshold, the two Dre’rendi guards faced a pair of elv’in sailors. 
The thin-limbed newcomers each held a child by the upper arm.
He stared in shock at the pair of youngsters.
The girl spotted him, too. “Uncle Kast!”
“Sheeshon?” Kast stepped toward her. “What are you doing here?” He had left the 
child in the care of Mader Geel, her nanny, back at the island.
“We snuck aboard,” Sheeshon said. “I hid in an apple barrel. He hid in a box.” 
She pointed to the other child, and Kast recognized Rodricko, Nee’lahn’s boy. 
His eyes were stretched wide, and his lower lip trembled as he fought back 
tears.
One of the elv’in sailors spoke. “Captain Lisla sensed them in the hold. She 
sent us to root through for stowaways.”
Kast waved for the two sailors to release the children. He knelt by Sheeshon and 
pulled the boy to his side, tucking him under an arm. “Why did you sneak onto 
the ship?”
Sheeshon stared over his shoulder. Her eyes crinkled, and an arm pointed. “Aunt 
Sy-wen… is she sick?”
Kast glanced behind him. The cabin door was still open. Frowning, he motioned 
for Narn to close and lock the door, then turned back to the young girl. “She’s 
fine, little one. She needs to rest.”
Sheeshon nodded sagely. “She’s got worms in her head.” Kast was taken aback by 
her words. He knew Sheeshon bore her grandfather’s gift of the rajor maga, an 
ability to see beyond horizons, but at times like this, it chilled him to see 
such insight mixed with childish simplicity. He pinched her chin and drew her 
attention to him. “Sheeshon, why are you here?”
Her voice shrunk to a whispered secret. “Hunt needs me.” Kast sighed. Back at 
the castle, he had tried to explain to her that Hunt was simply away. He should 
have known that such lies would not be believed by someone with her abilities, 
especially when she was bonded to Hunt by ancient magicks.
“We’re trying to find him,” Kast said. “But you shouldn’t have left Mader Geel. 
She’ll be scared for you.”
“I had to come. Hunt needs me.”
“And what about Rodricko?” Kast asked.
“He had to come, too. He didn’t want to, but I swore that I’d scrimshaw him a 
pony if he didn’t cry.”
“And I didn’t cry!” Rodricko burst out. “Well, you were gonna.”
Kast shook his head. Both children looked exhausted, red-eyed, and limp of limb. 
He gathered them under his arms and turned to the guards and sailors. “I’ll take 
them to my cabin. Send a crow back to A’loa Glen with the news of the children. 
If I know Mader Geel, she’ll have the entire castle torn apart stone by stone 
looking for the girl.”
One of the elv’in stepped forward. “Captain Lisla said she is prepared to head 
back to the island at your word.”
Kast nodded. He hated the delay in backtracking, but he had no choice “Have her 
tack around as soon as the winds are favorable.”
“No!” Sheeshon said. “We don’t want to go back.”
“Hush, child. Rodricko can’t leave his tree for very long. He is nyphai. He must 
go back.”
“No, he doesn’t! I showed him how.” She glared at the boy. “Show Uncle Kast.”
Rodricko shook his head. “I don’t want to.”
Kast hiked the boy higher. “What is Sheeshon talking about?”
“Show him!” Sheeshon demanded.
Kast leaned his forehead against the boy’s. “It’ll be our secret. You and me. 
Bloodrider brothers.”
Rodricko’s eyes widened. He stammered, then reached in his jacket and pulled out 
a twig upon which hung a heavy flower. It was rumpled, but clearly one of the 
koa’kona blooms. “Sheeshon says that I got to prick my finger and put blood on 
the broken end of the stem. It’ll keep the flower fresh, and I’ll feel good.”
“Have you tried this already?”
Rodricko nodded. “I used a rose thorn.”
“He yipped like a puppy when you step on its tail,” Sheeshon added.
“I did not!‘
Kast frowned at the girl. “Sheeshon, where did you get this idea?”
She squirmed, biting her lips. She would not meet his eyes.
“Sheeshon…” He kept his tone stern.
She leaned closer, pressing her cheek to his. “Papa told me in a dream. He 
showed me.”
Kast knew she meant her grandfather, Pinorr, the shaman of the Dre’rendi. He had 
died during the War of the Isles. Could the child be right? Would Rodricko be 
safe as long as he watered the twig in his own blood?
“Papa says Rodricko is different. He comes from bloodsuckers.”
Kast startled. Sheeshon knew nothing about Rodricko’s heritage, that his roots 
traced back to the Grim wraiths. He turned to the boy. At half a day out from 
the island and the tree the boy should be ailing, fading, and weak. But besides 
appearing tired, Rodricko was pink of cheek and full of nervous energy. He did 
not seem to be suffering in any way.
“What should I tell the captain?” the elv’in asked.
Kast considered the situation. Dare he put faith in Sheeshon’s dream? A boy’s 
life hung on this hook. But so much also depended on a swift rendezvous with the 
fleet.
“Sir?”
Kast straightened and stepped away with the children in his arms.
“Stay the northerly course for now.”
Sheeshon clapped, then hugged him around the neck. “We’re going to find Hunt!”
“Yes, we are.” Kast headed to his stateroom at the other end of the passageway.
As they reached the door, Sheeshon whispered in his ear. “When I’m growed up, 
I’m gonna marry him.”
He lowered her to the floor. “Hunt is too old for you.”
Sheeshon giggled. “Not Hunt, silly.” She pointed a small finger toward
Rodricko, then pressed the same finger to her lips, indicating secrecy. Kast 
tousled her hair. He hoped that girlish fancy came to pass. As such, a part of 
him still balked at his decision to continue with the voyage.
He was leading the children into a realm of danger beyond the darkest 
contemplation.
He opened the door and guided Sheeshon ahead of him, then followed with the 
younger boy in his arms. Rodricko was already dozing off.
Sheeshon clambered onto the bed, and he settled the boy beside her. Rodricko 
crawled to the pillow and fell into its embrace.
“You both rest,” Kast ordered. “I don’t want either one of you even stepping off 
this bed.” He turned to go, but the girl reached out and touched his arm. “Uncle 
Kast, Papa told me to tell you something.”
Gooseflesh prickled the skin on his arm. “Your papa… from another dream ?”
“No, the same dream as the one about Rodricko.” Sheeshon yawned, a jawbreaker 
that would not stop.
Kast had to restrain himself against reaching out and shaking the girl. “What 
did he say?” His voice was strained.
Sheeshon curled into a tired ball. “Papa says you have to kill the dragon.”
“Kill Ragnar’k?” His words were not so much a question as simple shock.
But Sheeshon answered it anyway, stifling another yawn, “ ‘Cause the dragon will 
eat the world.”
The summer sun offered no warmth in the cold, wintry woods. Tyrus marched over 
soil as hard and flinty as the trees themselves, while gray ash puffed up with 
each step. He grumbled under his breath, while the Magus trod ahead of him, 
slogging up a wake of clogging soot, moving no faster than a man might crawl.
“How much farther?” Tyrus asked.
The Magus pointed vaguely ahead. “Still another league.”
“And you’re sure Raal will be there?”
“With Raal, I can never be certain. He has become as wild as his creations.”
Tyrus studied the woods to right and left. Though the trees were leafless, the 
forest remained gloomy from the fog-shaded sun. Still, green life poked through 
here and there: twisted and stunted bushes bearing more thorns than leaves, 
scraggly grasses, a few gnarled saplings. And with the greenery came all sorts 
of small life: beetles, snails, snakes, voles, and scrawny rabbits. He even 
spotted one deer.
But conspicuously absent were any sign of the fae-nee, the tiny inhabitants of 
the dead forest. Throughout the trek yesterday and this morning, he had sought 
some evidence of the creatures: tiny footprints in the ash, distant voices, 
movement. But it was as if he and the Magus were the only ones who moved through 
the woods.
Only during the night had he caught flickers of motion from deep in the wood, 
but they could easily have been ordinary woodland creatures. Still, Tyrus sensed 
that little was ordinary that moved through this forest at night.
The only other creature he had spotted in the woods was something large that had 
lumbered past along a hill’s ridge in the distance. It was like nothing Tyrus 
had ever seen. It was gray-skinned—or perhaps just ash-covered like himself—and 
moved on all fours. Its head was like a bull, but with a drape of tentacles 
hanging above its wide mouth. It marched along, gathering anything green from 
the forest floor with its tentacles and feeding its gullet.
Tyrus had given it a wide berth. Even granite could break if trampled under the 
bulk of such a gigantic creature.
But besides this lone beast, the woods appeared empty of life. It lay dead 
silent—no birdsong, not even a whisper of insects. Each step they took sounded 
loud and abrasive.
Tyrus was glad to have company on this journey, even the taciturn Magus. The 
Stone Forest was not a landscape to walk alone. It was a place of madness, where 
empty hills and vales drained one’s spirit, and loneliness was compounded.
Finally, the Magus broke the stony silence. “We near my old home.” His face 
swung like a plant seeking sunlight. “I would see it before we pass into the 
deeper wood.”
“Is that wise?” Tyrus asked. He feared that his companion might become mired in 
old memories and grief at the sight of his former homestead. “Perhaps we should 
go directly to Raal.”
“No,” the Magus droned, swinging in a westerly direction. “I would see my home 
again.”
Tyrus had no choice but to follow. The Magus led the way up a long slope and 
through a section of trees that grew more densely together. As Tyrus followed, 
he noted strange pocks on the tree trunks they passed. They appeared at first 
natural, but as more and more became apparent, he realized they were nooks and 
cubbies cut or chiseled from the trees.
He paused to examine one of these holes. It was about two handspans tall and one 
wide, crudely hacked.
The Magus noticed his attention. “Raw material from which the fae-nee were 
born.” He spoke as he marched up the hill. “I would take a chunk of wood from a 
tree and sit with it until it spoke to me.” Tyrus closed the distance between 
them. “Spoke to you?”
“Each piece would eventually reveal its form to me, whether it be a man or 
woman, a child, an animal.” He shrugged. “Then I’d chip away the wood to free 
what was hidden inside.”
“Then you’d give it life,” Tyrus said. The Magus’ voice dropped to a sad 
whisper. “My mother… She was always ailing, but she always had a smile for her 
only child. She taught me our family gift.”
An elemental lineage, Tyrus thought, passed from one generation to another. And 
now it’s passed to fae-nee creations.
“But Raal…” Bitterness lay thick on the Magus’ tongue. “He’s stolen my mother’s 
gift and fouled it.”
Tyrus sighed. He only hoped the little creature still bore this gift—then he 
might be able to free the d’warf army and his companions back at the village. It 
was a thin hope that drove the prince forward into this bleak wood.
The Magus reached the summit of the hill and gazed down. Tyrus joined him.
Below lay a small vale, set in stone—a glimpse from the time of Black-hall’s 
creation. A small section of forest had been cleared away. Stone fences marked 
boundaries of what must once have been a garden. There was even a tiny stone 
outbuilding, roofless now, its thatch long fallen away. It must have been a pen 
or small barn. The far slope of the vale was cleared of trees, an empty expanse 
of ash and rock. Open holes dotted the slope, some still glinting with shards of 
glass, like the icy teeth of some subterranean monster: windows into the Magus’ 
home. A larger hole, surrounded by slabs of broken rock, must be the entrance.
At the foot of the hill, a thin stream moved with a sluggish gurgle, its waters 
a sickly green. The place reeked of ash and brimstone.
“Home…” the Magus moaned, a sound full of heartbreak. Still, he started down the 
slope, determined to dredge up old pains.
Tyrus followed. He had no choice—he had opened this wound back among the field 
of d’warf statues and would have to see it through. They forded the small 
stream, not bothering with the broken remains of a narrow bridge. Both men were 
made of stone; even this sickly water could not taint them.
Once across, the Magus led the way to the entrance. “I’ve not been back here 
since I first fled in horror from the root cellar.”
“Five centuries?”
The Magus nodded and bent to enter his old home. “I would go alone from here.”
Tyrus thought to object. Whatever the fellow found in there would likely send 
him into a pit of depression from which he might never climb free. But there was 
no use in arguing. Once set rolling, a boulder could not be easily stopped.
The Magus climbed over the tumble of rocks and disappeared inside. Tyrus noted 
that the slabs of rock here were petrified wood, too—what was left of the door, 
once stout oak, was now broken stone.
Tyrus stepped back from the threshold with distaste. A thin wind howled through 
the spindly branches of the surrounding trees—they appeared like bony fingers 
scratching at the smoky, soot-filled skies. This was the domain of the Dark 
Lord, a small peek into the world he would create. Despair settled like ice 
around the prince’s granite heart. He turned from the skies. Off to the left, a 
bit of color drew his eye. It stood out against the ash-gray of the landscape: a 
small dandyflower, a weed growing from between two slabs of the entryway door. 
It was a sickly specimen: a bit of green, a feeble curl of yellow petals no 
larger than a thumbnail. But it pushed from the rock and brightened the world 
for its short life.
Tyrus smiled. He had never seen anything more beautiful. The sight fired a 
fierce determination in his heart.
Even here life fought against the Dark Lord’s corruption. With renewed hope, 
Tyrus faced the dread forest and skies.
Then a scream burst behind him, echoing up from the bowels of the underground 
home, ripe with pain, horror, and outrage.
Tyrus swung around, sweeping out his sword, a sliver of polished granite. 
“Magus!”
The wail fled into the woods, fading away.
“Magus!” he bellowed again. “Answer me!” He held his breath, but there was no 
answer. The silence pressed down on his ears, squeezing his throat. Even the 
winds had quieted, as if shocked by the scream.
He faced the dark threshold to the subterranean abode. After another long 
moment, he took a single step toward the entrance. He had no idea what lay 
below, but he also knew he had no choice but to go see. The Magus was the only 
one who knew where Raal hid in the Stone Forest. If there was to be any hope for 
the others, Tyrus would have to brave the darkness below.
Gripping his sword hilt tighter, the prince picked his way over the rocky rubble 
and ducked through the entrance. The hall beyond was murky, and the passages 
extending out were even darker. He had no torch. But the Magus had found his way 
down without light. Hopefully the broken windows would offer some illumination.
With his sword held before him, he moved toward the passage he had seen the 
Magus take. The darkness closed around him immediately. He crept one step at a 
time, sweeping out with his sword, seeking obstacles. Slowly he shuffled down 
the hall. His eyes quickly grew strained. His ears sought any sound that might 
lead him to his quarry.
The hall ended at a cross passage. Tyrus paused. To the left, the way seemed 
fractionally brighter. A window must light that direction. But which way did the 
Magus go—toward the light or away? Tyrus scrunched his brows. He had an inkling 
of where his companion would head. The Magus had come back here to face his 
past, back to his roots, back to where he was born into this stone-cold 
world—the cellar to this haunted home.
Tyrus sensed the best course was to the right; the floor seemed to slope 
slightly downward that way. Taking a deep breath, he headed into the darkness. 
He was rewarded soon thereafter by discovering a set of stairs on the left. As 
he stood on the top stair, he heard a slight tinkle from a bit of rock bouncing 
down the steps. Someone had passed recently this way, loosening what had been 
untouched for ages.
Had the Magus braved the dark stair? Maybe the scream was from a fall. Could the 
Magus have hit his stone head and blacked out?
No, the scream had been full of anger and horror. Tyrus took a step down the 
well. Then another. The way was narrow and steep, stair edges crumbling 
underfoot—a tricky climb even with light. In darkness, it was pure treachery. 
His eyes sought any light.
More pebbles tumbled, dislodged by his own feet. The narrow stairway spiraled, 
tight and confining. As he rounded another turn, he began to make out his sword 
arm, a darker shadow cutting through the gloom. Light! There was light seeping 
from down below!
His pace increased. With each step, details emerged: the stone walls, the worn 
steps, the turn of the stairwell. The light took on a richer cast, a reddish 
glow. Fire.
Who could have set a flame down here? He reached the end of the stairs and 
stopped. A short passage stretched to an open doorway. Lights flickered up 
ahead, clearly a fire or torch.
With the tumble of stones from the stairs and his own echoing footsteps, there 
was no need to pretend secrecy. “Magus!” he called out. “Are you all right?”
There was a long hollow silence—then a whisper of laughter.
“Magus?”
The laughter swelled, full of depths that spoke of madness and malice. It echoed 
up the stairway.
But as Tyrus stood on the step, he knew he was mistaken. The sniggering behind 
him was not echoes. A pebble bounced down from above. The stairway behind him 
was no longer empty.
A voice, brittle enough to shatter glass, called out from the cellar room. 
“Come, Prince of Pirates, join us where it all began.”
There was no doubt who spoke ahead. It wasn’t the Magus, but his creation—Raal.
Tyrus moved forward. He had come to meet this creature; he wouldn’t balk now. 
And from the sounds behind him, he doubted he would be allowed to leave.
Crossing to the doorway, he stepped into the cellar. The room was shallow but 
wide; a single torch was jammed into a hole in one wall. Its light revealed old, 
crumbled shelves, and sacks of burlap huddled in the corner. Ash and dust 
covered all.
In the center of the cellar stood the Stone Magus, his back to Tyrus. He seemed 
frozen in place, a true statue again.
Laughter crackled from beyond the figure. “Welcome, Prince of
Granite!“
Tyrus edged around the walls, circling the frozen Magus to get a clear view of 
Raal, his adversary here.
As he crept around, he found the space in front of the Magus empty. Tyrus 
frowned. Had Raal circled in step with him, keeping the statue always between 
them, staying hidden?
Tyrus suspected a trap and stopped, sword ready. “Who speaks?” he said. “Show 
yourself.”
“You know who I am!” the other said gleefully. The Stone Magus turned his head 
and stared at Tyrus. Laughter flowed from his flinty lips. “I’m Raal, lord and 
king of the fae-nee!”
Kast leaned over the rail of the Ravenswing and studied the strange sea passing 
under the keel of the ship. As a Bloodrider, he had sailed many treacherous 
waters: the maze of the Archipelago, the squall-ridden Blasted Shoals, the 
haunted channels of Kree-kree, the fog-bound shores of the Breshen Jungle. But 
he had never seen anything like these northern waters that surrounded Blackhall.
It was an ocean of ice and fire.
Throughout the Bay of T’lek, mountains of ice rode the waves like blue-humped 
seabeasts. Other areas of the sea roiled with steam, boiling like a kettle atop 
a flame. Steam and fog misted into a storm on the sea’s surface. The currents of 
the bay were as tangled as any knotted rope. Its seabed was a trap of volcanic 
reefs and jagged atolls that seemed to appear and disappear at whim.
Nothing was constant about this sea. Not the winds, not the weather.
Master Edyll stood beside him, a companion in this vigil. The silver-haired 
elder of the mer’ai shook his head with resignation. “These waters will be a 
difficult field from which to wage a war.”
Kast didn’t bother with false cheer. He kept his face grim.
“We should reach the fleet by dawn,” the elder said.
“If the captain can manage these temperamental winds.”
“She’s a strong lass. She’ll manage.”
Kast nodded at this. Over the past two days, he had learned to respect the lithe 
captain of the Ravenswing. Lisla ran a tight ship, kept all in order, and seemed 
tireless despite the malaise that affected her powers. The elv’in craft had 
swept over the oceans like a leaf in a storm. She had three skilled windblowers, 
elementals to conjure winds, on hand day and night. They shuffled one man out to 
rest a quarter of the day. Otherwise, the pair on duty were ceaseless in the aid 
of their captain.
Kast glanced back to where Lisla stood by the rudder of her ship. Her coppery 
hair billowed with winds as she manned her post. Her skin was as pale as the 
scudding clouds overheard. And though the blue of her eyes was as sharp as when 
they first took flight two days back, he was not sure she had slept.
He admired her. The trip would normally have taken five to six days; she had cut 
the time in half. With such folk at their side, Kast could almost foresee 
victory in the war ahead.
“I spoke to Xin earlier,” Edyll continued. “He still can’t clearly reach Lord 
Tyrus. The prince lives, but the details are scant.”
Kast heard the concern in the mer’ai elder’s voice. He also noticed the way his 
companion rubbed at the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger. “What 
worries you about this? It is probably just due to the waning elemental 
energies.”
“No, Xin spoke to Joach this morning. He says Joach sounded crisp and hale, 
though that distance is even greater than to Lord Tyrus.”
Kast’s brow crinkled. “So you think the prince is in trouble?”
“And what of the d’warf army? Where have they gone? Lord Tyrus goes in search of 
them along the coast, and now he’s mysteriously out of communication. I don’t 
like it. The Dark Lord has already attacked A’loa Glen with that sick clutch of 
evil, and he now threatens to seed the fleet with the eggs. Who’s to say what 
evil he aims toward our land armies?”
Edyll pointed an arm over the rail toward the roiling sea of ice and fire and 
continued. “It is not the condition of the battlefield that concerns me, but the 
state of our own forces. The full moon is due in another five days, and we are 
far from ready for a full-scale assault.”
“War never picks a convenient time,” Kast said. “You must simply grab your sword 
and either defend or attack.”
The older man shook his head and mumbled, “Spoken like a true Bloodrider.”
Kast sighed. “We will win this war.”
“Why do you think that?”
He turned to the misty seas and the northern horizons. “Because we must. There 
is no future without victory.”
A long silence stretched; then Edyll spoke softly. “And no hope for Sy-wen?”
Kast gripped the rail, his head bowed. “I love my niece,” the elder said. “But 
the battle ahead is larger than any one individual. Hard sacrifices will need to 
be made. Remember that you are the Dragonkin reborn.”
Kast scowled, but his hand rose to touch the tattoo of a black dragon on his 
cheek and neck. He recalled the picture of the forefather of both their peoples: 
Dre’rendi and mer’ai. The figure in the ancient painting had been riding a white 
dragon and bore the same dark tattoo. The past had come full circle back to the 
present, like the curled dragon on his cheek, its tail touching its nose.
“The Dragonkin made difficult choices during his time, and I suspect you’ll face 
decisions even harder.”
Kast remained silent. A question already weighed heavy on his heart, something 
he had discussed with no others. Sheeshon’s words echoed in his heart: Papa says 
you have to Mill the dragon.
“You’ll have to put the good of the world above your own heart,” Master Edyll 
finished. “Can you do this?”
Kast clenched a fist atop the rail. “It seems I must.”
Edyll nodded. “You are truly the Dragonkin reborn.” He patted him on the 
shoulder, then headed for the shelter of the lower decks.
Kast remained on deck, alone, his thoughts lost to the winds. He remembered the 
painting of his forefather on his great white seadragon. What would the 
Dragonkin have done if faced with the same dilemma? Could he have slain his own 
mount? Was he that hard? Could anyone be that hard?
Over the winters of their union, the walls between dragon and man had worn 
thinner. Kast knew the dragon’s heart as certainly as his own.
There was a wildness to Ragnar’k, but also a well of loyalty and love for Sy-wen 
that was as bottomless as his own. In this love, the man and dragon were bonded 
in ways more intimate than any rider and his mount. He had no idea how to slay 
Ragnar’k, and if he knew, would he have the heart?
Words echoed with warning in his head: The dragon will eat the world. Sheeshon’s 
gift of the rajor maga was unquestioned, but she was only a child. Could she 
have misinterpreted the meaning of her prophetic dreams? Dare he place such 
important decisions into her hands?
And then there was Sy-wen to consider. Only the magick of Ragnar’k could break 
the spell of the tentacled beast in her head. If he killed the dragon, would he 
be slaying all hope for her freedom?
Kast stood under the snapping sails as the Ravenswing swung slightly to port, 
ever chasing the swifter winds. He raced toward a fate that even prophecy could 
not penetrate. But as he stood there, he trusted his heart. He could not dismiss 
the certainty he had seen in Sheeshon’s eyes. He had sensed the truth the moment 
it had been spoken. He remained facing north, letting the cold winds wipe the 
tears from his cheek.
Ragnar’k must die.
A tremble passed over his form, terror and despair. At first, he thought it was 
just the emotions of his decision, but the sense of menace grew around him like 
the clutching arms of a demon. Then a scream arose from below, echoing through 
the planks.
“Sy-wen!”
Other voices rose in panic from the rigging and deck. The ship’s flight faltered 
as the captain seemed to lose her bearings.
Kast spun and found Sheeshon behind him. She held up a bit of half-carved ivory. 
His hands took it out of reflex. It was a crude boat with sails and a prominent 
keel, but there was something sinister about it. Coarse faces had been carved 
into its sides, twisted into malignant or terrified visages.
“A bone boat,” Sheeshon said.
Sy-wen’s scream died away, and the trembling terror passed. As the boat 
steadied, Kast collected himself. “Scrimshaw,” he agreed with the child. “Bone 
ivory.” He passed the boat back to the child.
But Sheeshon seemed disinterested in her carving. “Not that!” she said. She 
pointed down to the seas. “Over there.”
Kast glanced to where she pointed. Against the dark blue seas, the ship below 
was the white of something dredged from the bottom of the blackest sea. But it 
raced with a speed that had nothing to do with winds and currents. It was as if 
the oceans themselves rejected the sick craft and sought to expel it from the 
waters, sending it flying northward.
Frowning, Kast grabbed a spyglass from his hip and sought a better view. It took 
him half a moment to find it. Once he did, every hair on his arms and neck rose 
with a pebbling gooseflesh. He knew he was staring at the source of his terror 
from a moment ago. It was not winds that filled those sails, but fear and 
horror. The craft must have passed near enough for them to feel its wake.
He stared at the monstrous construction. Its prow was a skeleton, its bony arms 
outstretched to the skies in supplication or pain. Its sides were not planks of 
wood, but fused bones and skulls. Even its stitched sails seemed too leathery 
for cloth. Sf{in came to mind at the sight, accentuated by the dripping gore 
that seemed to flow along the rigging, like blood through a corpse’s veins.
“A bone boat,” Kast mumbled.
Sheeshon pointed. “Hunt’s down there! Let’s go see what he’s doing!”
Tyrus faced the Stone Magus in the dusty cellar. “Raal?”
The figure swung to face him fully. Stone eyes narrowed, and lips pulled into a 
wicked sneer of amusement. “Welcome to the heart of my kingdom.” He half bowed, 
mocking. “One lord of stone to another.”
“I don’t understand.”
The statue straightened, running a palm over his form as if smoothing rumpled 
clothing. “We share this prison of stone. Magus and king. Man and fae-nee.”
Shock slowed. “You’re one person!”
“Two spirits, one body.”
Tyrus’ thoughts turned to Fardale and Mogweed. The twins were similarly 
afflicted. “The magick…”
“It not only warped. It also wove. During the spell where the Magus’ spirit was 
sewn back into his stone corpse, I was woven into the mix like yeast into a 
bread’s flour.”
“Then why did you wait until now to reveal yourself?”
“It was not my choice.” A familiar bitterness soured his words. “The Magus only 
lets me out when he sinks so deep into his well of blackness that I can slide 
past him to the surface.”
“And can I speak to the Magus now? Can he hear me?”
“Not unless I allow it! I control the body.” Laughter flowed after this.
“And I won’t allow it.” He covered his ears with his stone palms. “Let the 
sleeper sleep!”
Tyrus watched this display with a furrowed brow. The relationship, though 
similar to Mogweed and Fardale’s plight, was clearly different— and something 
struck him as wrong. This new speaker still sounded at the edges like the Magus. 
Was it just the limits in range of a stone throat, or was it something more 
sinister? And Raal had called him by name a moment ago, knowing him as prince 
and pirate. This spirit would not know that, unless it shared the Magus’ ears 
and mind.
Subtle mannerisms struck him: the way the eyes shifted to the left just before 
he spoke, the way one hand’s fingers would curl and uncurl while speaking. These 
characteristics of the Stone Magus persisted in Raal. Were the two truly 
different? Were they two spirits sharing one body, or had one spirit split into 
two minds?
“Come. It’s been forever and a day since I met any of my children. Let us see 
how they’ve fared in my absence.” Raal clumped his stone form back to the door. 
He paused only to grab up the torch from the wall.
Tyrus had no choice but to follow. Raal led the way to the spiraling stairway. 
He thrust his torch forward and called up the steps. “Children of the fae-nee, 
come to your king! Come greet our poor castle’s guest!”
From beyond the reach of the firelight, laughter answered this summons. A pebble 
rolled down the steps, then another.
“They come,” Raal whispered, his smile stretching. “My children…” Tyrus heard an 
echo of the Magus’ pain behind the excitement, but his own attention focused on 
the stairway. The first of the fae-nee crept shyly into the firelight. Tyrus 
gawked.
The first creature was no taller than two handspans, hairless and gray of skin. 
It walked on two legs like a man, but the joints bent backward, more like a 
bird. Its head was taken up by its two eyes, black and moist. The mouth 
underneath was a lipless slit.
Others clambered after this one: some spindly with heads too large for their 
bodies, others squat with toady faces, some walked upright, others on all fours. 
There was even one pair joined by a single arm. But no matter the shapes, they 
all bore the same large black eyes, full of dark mischief.
Raal knelt to greet his offspring. They came to him like rats swarming over a 
corpse, climbing his stone arms, perching on his shoulder or head. Laughter 
flowed from Raal, echoed by his children, piping sharply from hundreds of tiny 
throats.
Tyrus backed away, fearing their touch.
Raal straightened and stood in the sea of pale gray flesh. “Their father is 
home.”
Tyrus frowned as more fae-nee clambered into the bowels of this dark dwelling. 
“You made all of them?”
“With my own hands, my own magick.”
It must have been centuries of work. One of the fae-nee crept near to Tyrus. It 
moved as if it were boneless. It had only one eye and stretched its neck to 
sniff at him, curious but wary of this granite stranger. It slipped to his leg. 
Then moving faster than the eye could follow, it raced up his limb to his waist.
Tyrus winced as claws dug into his granite flesh. From its perch, it continued 
to sniff at his form, clearly confused. Tyrus grabbed it, pulling it free. It 
hissed and snapped at his fingers, biting deep into the granite of his thumb. 
Pain welled. It seemed his granite flesh was not impervious to the fae-nee. 
Birthed from the poisonous petrified wood, stone could harm stone.
He tossed the creature back among its brethren, where it was lost in the shuffle 
of flesh and limbs. Tyrus pressed his wounded thumb to his chest. A single drop 
of blood fell to the floor. Another fae-nee sniffed at the splatter, then lapped 
it up. Blood feeders.
Tyrus backed another step. Of the hundreds here, no two were alike. The roil of 
flesh was like the ravings of a madman given form and substance.
Tyrus quailed at the enormity of the task before him. How could he convince the 
Magus or Raal to help him? Hope of a cure for the d’warf army faded—but he knew 
he could not give up without trying. Perhaps if he better understood the magick 
at work here… “Raal,” he called out. The stone figure focused back to him. “I 
would see how you make one of your fae-nee.”
Raal waved a hand dismissively, knocking loose one of his creations. It fell 
squalling among the others. He ignored it. “I have enough children to care for.”
“So how would one more be a burden? Or can’t you bring another into existence?”
Raal’s eyes narrowed. “You doubt me…” A vein of menace laced his words.
Tyrus held his breath, sensing the moment could go either way. The hundreds of 
pairs of eyes swung upon him like a murder of crows eyeing a worm. At a word 
from their king, he could be torn limb from limb, a feast of blood for this foul 
brotherhood. But something shone in Raal’s expression, hidden under the menace: 
loneliness and fear.
Understanding dawned. How long had it been since anyone had conversed with the 
Magus or Raal? The pack at his feet were clearly mindless, creations of madness 
given life. They were feeble company.
“Come above,” Raal finally said. “I’ll show you what I can do.” He stalked 
through the fae-nee at his feet. They ran from his legs and up the stairs ahead 
of him.
Tyrus followed, leery of the stragglers, those fae-nee that moved more slowly, 
shambling or crawling. His thumb still ached from the bite. As he climbed, he 
kept his sword between him and these last fae-nee. A small creature that looked 
like a six-legged spider scrabbled ahead of him. He sidestepped its clumsy 
progress and followed Raal with his torch.
They reached the top of the stairs and wound their way to a chamber with a large 
cold hearth. A broken window let in wan sunlight. Raal slipped his torch into a 
wall slot and waved Tyrus inside.
The fae-nee swarmed ahead at their master’s signal and climbed over chairs, 
tables, and benches. Pottery on a shelf fell with a loud crash, startling Tyrus. 
Other fae-nee ran through the hearth, leaving tiny footprints of ash.
Raal scowled but entered with Tyrus. “They’re excited to have visitors.”
“So I see.”
A wood rat was ferreted out by the horde. It ran across the stone floor, but it 
was set upon by the fae-nee. They tore it apart before it could cross half the 
room. Its squeal was brief as it disappeared under their many claws and teeth.
Raal crossed to a bench on the far wall. Metal tools were spread on the tabletop 
and hung on pegs on the walls. Tyrus, following, recognized woodworking chisels, 
awls, and knifes. Chunks of petrified wood in various stages of sculpting rested 
on the bench.
Raal reached to one of these. “I was working on this before the Magus last took 
command of the body.” He collected a chunk of stone chiseled into the likeness 
of a dog. A vague snarl marked its lips.
Grabbing a sharp-pointed awl, Raal set to work on the piece. He dug and scraped, 
changed tools, flipped his handiwork one way, then another. Tyrus let him work, 
fearful of disturbing his concentration.
Seen through the open window, the sun was setting into gloomy twilight, as one 
statue worked on another.
Tyrus used the time to plan a strategy. If Raal could indeed change stone to 
flesh, then he must convince him to break the spell on the d’warves. But what 
coin could he offer this madman?
He had no clear answer when Raal finished. “That will do,” he said. “It is hard 
to hear the voice in the wood after it’s stone.”
Tyrus remembered similar words from the Magus, how the wood spoke to him, 
telling him what it wanted to be. Tyrus stared at the wolflike carving. If the 
wood itself told him to sculpt this, then the tree must have been mad. The dog 
had horns on its head; its hind legs looked like a bird’s, ending in claws.
“You can breathe life into this?” he asked, suddenly unsure he wanted Raal to do 
so.
“Yes.” Raal studied his handiwork. “It only takes a bit of concentration.”
Tyrus stepped around for a better view. He saw that most of the other fae-nee 
also were fixed on the new statue.
“And a little blood,” Raal mumbled. He grabbed up one of the fae-nee nearby and 
stabbed it with the awl he had been using.
It screamed like a wounded bird, but Raal lifted it and spattered its blood over 
his new statue. Where each drop touched, stone melted into gray flesh. The 
transformation spread like thawing ice over the sculpture’s entire surface. In a 
short moment, the wolfish creature appeared flesh.
Raal tossed aside the wounded fae-nee. It scrambled away, licking at its wounded 
side. On the bench, the wolf stood unmoving, as still as any statue, only carved 
of gray flesh.
Leaning forward, Raal blew across the form, starting at the back end and working 
forward. Where his breath touched, the flesh seemed to ripple, coming alive. 
Legs bent, its tiny chest heaved, its neck craned. Then, as Raal straightened 
from his labors, wide black eyes opened to stare anew at the world.
“Welcome, little one. Welcome to this dark world.” Laughter followed, echoed by 
the other fae-nee.
Tyrus gaped as the creature tested its legs, throwing its head around, trying to 
skewer anything nearby with its tiny horns. It bounded off the table to join the 
others. Several gathered around the newcomer, sniffing and pawing at it.
Raal swung around. “That is how my children are born. Blood and breath.”
Tyrus remained speechless. Blood to melt stone to flesh… breath for life. Was 
that the answer? Could the blood of the fae-nee break the spell that held the 
others trapped in stone? And since the others already had life, would they even 
need Raal’s breath?
He stared at the mass of cavorting creatures. How much blood would it take?
There was only one way to find out.
He crossed to the bench. The wounded fae-nee had left a trail of blood atop the 
table. It was black but also seemed to glow a sickly green, like the stream that 
ran past the house. Tyrus leaned forward, placing his granite palm atop a tiny 
pool of the brackish blood.
With its touch, a shock trembled up his arm. His legs weakened, and a gasp flew 
out of his lips. He stumbled back, raising his hand before his face. His granite 
palm was now pale flesh. As he stared, the transformation raced up his arm with 
a warm tingling. The heat warmed the stone. Clothing and skin bloomed with color 
and life.
Raal stared at him in shock.
Tyrus gasped again as the spell dissolved from him, spreading over his torso and 
down his legs. He watched his other arm come to life, starting at the shoulder 
and sweeping down to his hand and up the length of his sword. In moments, bright 
steel reflected in the firelight.
He straightened and moved his limbs. He felt lighter, more spry.
“The Magus’ spell… you broke it!” A cry escaped Raal’s throat. It was pure 
madness, a mix of horror and delight, an impossible sound. Turning to the bench, 
he smeared some of the blood on his own stone flesh. He held his finger out 
toward Tyrus: the finger remained gray stone. “Why doesn’t it work for me?” he 
screamed, sounding distinctly like the Magus. “Why is this a key to your prison 
and not mine?”
Tyrus backed from this tirade.
The fae-nee, sensing the distress of their master, churned and grew more 
agitated. Wails piped from their throats, too, an echo of their creator. Several 
were staring his way. Their black eyes glowed with suspicion… and something more 
dire. Blood lust. Tyrus was no longer stone. They must smell his flesh. He 
remembered the fate of the wood rat. If they set upon him, how far would he get 
before being brought down ?
The wolf creature stalked out of the pack, nose in the air, gray lips pulling 
back to reveal gray teeth.
“Why can’t I break free?” Raal wailed.
Tyrus knew he was doomed unless he could gain the support of the fae-nee king. 
“The magick that created you must have been more complex.
As you said yourself, the energies of your creation were warped by the foul 
birth throes of Blackhall. The blood of the fae-nee must not be strong enough to 
break the spell.“
Raal screamed in despair. The fae-nee surged toward Tyrus, sensing the source of 
their master’s distress.
Tyrus held the sword before him. The wolf creature leaped, but he kicked it 
away. “There might be a way!” he cried. “A way to set you free!” The wailing cut 
off with his words, and screams faded from the fae-nee. A heavy silence settled 
into the room. The horde held back.
The stone figure was a statue, bent under the weight of centuries of loneliness 
and madness. “How?”
Tyrus spoke slowly. “If there is a way, I need both Raal and the Magus 
listening. It took both of you to create your stone prison. It’ll take both to 
free you.”
The figure remained frozen for a breath, then nodded. “We’re listening.” Tyrus 
gulped. He had no clear answer; he had sought only to delay the inevitable by 
dangling the possibility of hope. Now he had to think quickly. For the moment, 
sanity was needed: He could not risk Raal’s wild ravings, nor the Magus’ 
immovable depression. They were two extremes. He needed a middle ground between 
the cold stone of the Magus and the raging fire that was Raal.
As he thought this, connections clicked in his own head. He blinked in shock. Of 
course! A plan began to form.
He faced the figure before him with renewed determination. “The Magus can turn 
flesh to stone. Raal can breathe life into stone. Opposite magicks!”
Again a slow nod.
“What if you both cast your spell at the same time?”
His words crinkled the other’s brow. “Would one not simply negate the other?” 
This sounded like the Magus, leaden with hopelessness.
“Not if you cast it upon yourselves!”
“Impossible!” This fiery retort was clearly Raal again. “What good would that 
do?”
Tyrus pressed on. They were not two spirits in one body, but one mind divided, 
one magick divided. If he could bring those parts together—even for a moment… 
“What would it hurt to try?” he answered back.
Silence pressed. Then lips moved. “What do we do?” the Magus asked dourly.
“This is a fool’s errand,” came next from the same mouth, sharp and im-patient. 
The fae-nee shifted nervously, chittering and scrapping amongst themselves, as 
divided as their master.
After a moment, Tyrus explained. “At the same moment, I want the Magus to cast a 
spell of stone upon yourself, while Raal wills the stone of your current form 
back to flesh.” He paused, then stressed the most important part. “It must be 
done at the same time… on my signal!”
The statue stared back, doubt and menace clear in the expression. “We will do 
it.”
Tyrus lifted his arm. Despite his own uncertain conviction, he tried to instill 
confidence with his words. “On my count from five, I will drop my hand and 
point. Both must act together.”
There was no response, just a narrowed stare.
“Five…four…” He prayed that by working together, with two halves of one mind 
trying to cast opposite spells, that a break in the stalemate would be achieved. 
“… three… two …” But what would be the result? He feared there was as much 
chance of making things worse as better. But he had no choice. “… one …”
He pointed his hand at the statue.
For a moment, nothing changed. The stone figure stood dead still.
Then a tremble began at the fingers and toes, a palsy that spread up the arms 
and legs and struck the torso with a shock like a bolt of lightning. The body 
spasmed, rocking. The head was thrown back. The mouth stretched open in a silent 
scream.
The fae-nee fled from the display, retreating to the walls. They couldn’t leave, 
but they didn’t want to stay.
Tyrus suspected a similar war going on in the stone figure before him, locked in 
a posture of pure agony and torment.
A gasp escaped the throat. “Run… Tyrus, run…”
For the first time, he knew he was hearing the true voice of the man who had 
once lived here: the healer. Whirling about, he dashed to the door and fled 
blindly through the dark halls.
A scream burst behind him; then the ground shook. An acrid wafting of sulfur 
flew up from behind him. And still, he ran…
Tyrus spotted the exit ahead, a square of gloom set in a world of shadow. He 
raced to it and dove out into the open air. He didn’t stop. Some instinct, a 
quivering of tiny hairs on his body, made him fly down the last of the slope. He 
reached the sickly stream and leaped with all the strength in his legs.
As he flew, he glanced behind him and saw a horrifying sight. A gray wave of 
petrifaction spread out from the slope, changing grass to stone, bush to 
granite. It spread out in all directions.
Then Tyrus hit the opposite bank of the stream. He took the brunt on his 
shoulder and rolled. Crying out in panic, he flung himself up and away, sure the 
magick would overwhelm him in a heartbeat.
But it didn’t.
He turned and saw that the explosion of petrifying magick had halted at the 
stream, dying away.
Panting, he stared without blinking. The convulsion of energies had subsided. 
Beyond the stagnant green stream, the landscape was a sculpture of stone. He had 
not expected such a backwash of magick.
He cupped his mouth and called across the stream. “Magus! Raal!” There was no 
answer. Chewing his lip, he debated his choices here. Nothing now blocked him 
from leaving. The spell was gone from his body; he was flesh and blood again. 
But what of the others? What of the d’warf army?
He grabbed up a handful of muddy reeds from the bank and tossed them over the 
stream. They landed on the stone soil, but remained green. Whatever magick had 
been spent here, it had ended.
Using some stepping stones in the brook, Tyrus crossed the waters and carefully 
tested the flinty soil himself. Nothing happened. Satisfied, he crept back to 
the shattered doorway. He called again, but still there was no answer. He 
listened for any telltale scrape or patter of feet. Were the fae-nee still 
about?
Not a single sound echoed out to him. He balked at what he had to do, but he 
gathered his resolve. The sun was almost gone, and he’d rather discover what lay 
within while there was at least some daylight. He reen-tered the home.
Straining his senses, he retraced his steps to the hearth room. Stopping 
outside, he saw that the torch had blown out. The only light came from the 
broken window.
He slid forward, creeping on his toes. Tyrus found himself trembling, worn from 
the panic and terror of the last half day. He stepped into the room.
What he found there stunned him. The fae-nee were still there, but now they were 
all stone again, frozen in place like some macabre tableau.
But the stone figure was gone. In its place, curled on the floor, was a man, as 
much flesh and blood as himself. He was blond like any Northerner, with a shadow 
of beard. A young man.
Tyrus hurried forward. To his surprise, he found the fellow still breathing. He 
knelt and touched his shoulder. “Magus?”
The man’s eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to see. His lips moved and slowly 
sounds emerged. “I… I killed them.”
Tyrus glanced to the stone figures. “Maybe it’s best.”
“No, not these stillborn monsters. Before…” The eyes closed with unspoken pain. 
“I was dying, suffocating in ash and smoke. I panicked… called my children to 
me…” There was a long silence, then a whisper. “They came because they were 
scared, frightened like any child seeking the consolation of a father. Blind to 
their love and trust, I ripped the very life from them in my fear… in my fight 
for life. The last was poor Raal. He saw me devour the others to keep myself 
alive, and still he didn’t leave. He came into my arms without protest. He 
leaned his cheek against mine. And I stole the life from him.”
Tyrus now understood what had ripped the man’s mind in two: guilt.
“And for what?” the figure finished. “To be entombed in ash and walk the world. 
To turn all I touched to cold stone like my heart. It was too much.” His 
shoulders shook, but no tears flowed.
“Do not blame yourself. It was a monstrous time. The birth of Black-hall in your 
own domain would fray any man’s heart.”
A hand reached up and grasped his fingers. No words of thanks were uttered, but 
they were understood. The two of them remained like this for several breaths.
Then the light-haired man spoke again, faintly. “It is time to follow the path I 
was meant to journey long ago. And as I die, so do my spells.” His lips stopped 
moving. “But first…” Tyrus felt a jolt through his hand as the man’s life left 
him. “… a gift.”
He stared down at the pale face, still and quiet, but no longer a statue. In 
death, the Magus had found his way back to life.
Tyrus stood. With a sad shake of his head, he departed this tomb and sought the 
last sunshine left in the day.
Standing in the doorway, he watched the stony landscape melt back to grass, 
dirt, and scrabbly bushes. The Magus’ spell was indeed unraveling. As he stared 
at the hopeful sight, he prayed the same was true elsewhere. With the Magus 
gone, would his friends and the frozen d’warf army be freed?
There was only one way to find out.
Tyrus stepped through the rubble of an oaken door. As he did so, he
O
spotted the small dandyflower growing amid the debris. Like the grass, it had 
also faded from stone back to green leaves and yellow petals. Tyrus reached 
down, plucking it free.
As he did so, the stem grew black, then the leaves, then the petals. In a 
heartbeat, he held only a granite replica of the flower. His eyes widened with 
horror.
Shocked, he dropped the flower. It shattered at his toes.
Only then did he remember the last words of the Magus.
But first… a gift.
Sy-wen swept through the foggy night atop Ragnar’k. She closed her eyes to savor 
the freedom of the open sky. Earlier, she had been dragged from belowdecks 
spitting and cursing, still possessed by the wickedness in her skull. But as 
before, Kast had called her forth enough to release the dragon.
Atop her mount, united by the bonded magick, she was her own self again. And 
Master Edyll had told her about the malignant boat they followed—the ship of 
bone.
The possessed, led by Hunt, raced the foul creation toward the fleet, intending 
to seed their evil among the ships. They had to be stopped.
She and Ragnar’k were to scout the ship and prepare a plan of attack, while the 
Ravenswing kept high among the clouds, awaiting her signal to dive down and 
attack. Both Bloodrider and elv’in warriors readied for the assault.
Ragnar’k banked on a wingtip and swept seaward. Sy-wen opened her eyes. Below 
she spotted the pale ship sweeping through the waves. Distantly she swore she 
heard screams carried on the winds. It was the wake of fear left by the ship, a 
palpable evil. Muffled by the magick of her dragon, it was dulled and blunted. 
Still, a small tremble passed over her skin.
Bad ship, Ragnar’k grumbled, sensing her heart.
Sy-wen didn’t argue. The foul craft, its crew, its cargo—all of it had to be 
destroyed before it reached the fleet. But she had friends aboard the ship, as 
innocent as she herself. She pictured Hunt, his broad, easy smile, his love and 
concern for Sheeshon.
A twinge of guilt traced through her. Why was she allowed to live while the 
others were sentenced to a watery grave?
The dragon swept over the boat and circled back. No alarm was raised. The ebony 
scales of Ragnar’k blended with the dark night. Sy-wen stud-ied the empty deck. 
There was not even a steersman. It was ominous to see a ship in full sail 
without a single sailor on deck—especially in these treacherous seas.
Around the ship, mountains of ice rode the currents, while other sections of the 
sea boiled and spat with searing steam. To sail such waters blindly was to 
invite certain death. But still the ship sped on, leaving a wake of screams.
Spied upon this close, the leathery sails were clearly skin, stretched and 
stitched with sinew. The rigging appeared damp with blood and gore. The skeleton 
at the prow held up bony arms toward the skies, pleading. The skull’s mouth was 
frozen open in a silent wail.
Sy-wen felt bile rising in her throat at the sight of it. It seemed mad to board 
such a craft, but they must. This den of evil had to be destroyed.
“Circle back to the Ravenswing” she whispered, sending her desire through her 
thoughts as much as her words. “We’ll attack when the moon is fully risen.”
Ragnar’k beat his wings to spiral back up toward the waiting ship. Movement 
below drew her attention. She focused back on the dread craft, where a hatch 
opened and someone stepped to the deck, face raised, searching.
Hide, she urged her mount.
Ragnar’k swept into one of the steamy fog banks, vanishing inside. All sign of 
the ship was lost below. The world itself vanished in a cloud of warm haze. 
Water beaded her skin, smelling of brimstone.
Sy-wen shivered despite the warmth and prayed they hadn’t been spotted. For that 
brief moment, as the sentinel below had raised his face to the skies, she had 
recognized Hunt.
Catching an updraft, Ragnar’k flew high and cleared the fog bank. Starlight and 
moonlight shone brighter. The dragon’s wings glistened with jeweled droplets. 
With a final shudder, she left the terror of the ghost ship behind and turned 
her face to the open skies.
Haifa league away, she spotted the Ravenswing, its iron keel ruddy in the night. 
She directed Ragnar’k back home. They dared not wait any longer before waging 
their assault. Whether Hunt had spotted them or not, he was clearly wary.
Ragnar’k swept over to the elv’in ship, drawing abreast. He swept along as 
Sy-wen called to the ship’s captain and pointed toward the seas below. “Now! As 
we planned, but we must go now!”
Captain Lisla acknowledged her with a wave. Other elv’in stood behind her, along 
with a tight group of Bloodriders. All were armed.
The captain yelled to her crew. Foresails were reefed, and lines were
° hauled with practiced precision. Lisla stood midship, her figure limned in 
energy. She cast her arms skyward, then swept them apart and down.
The Ravenswing, an extension of her body and spirit, bucked up, then dove 
steeply toward the fog-shrouded ocean. Its keel shone brighter as it dropped 
away.
Ragnar’k tucked his wings and followed, dropping like a stone from the skies. 
Sy-wen leaned against the dragon’s hot neck, her feet clamped tight in the flaps 
on either side. Wind ripped at her, threatening to tear her from her perch. 
Despite the danger, delight surged through her. In her heart, a dragon roared a 
matching pleasure. The sensations blurred, and it became impossible to tell 
where dragon ended and rider began.
Ragnar’k passed the diving ship, and the pair broke through the clouds, the 
ocean spreading before them. Blue ice glinted against the black sea. Plumes of 
steam rose like ghostly towers of some lost city. And amid the wild ocean, a 
single ship scudded over the waves. Go! she urged. Do not let them escape. 
Never, my bonded… never!
Behind the sending of the dragon, she felt the heart of another. She touched 
that smaller heart and felt a pride and fierceness that matched a hundred 
dragons. Sy-wen smiled into the winds. Whatever came of this night, for this 
moment they were all together.
Sy-wen sensed the Ravenswing sweeping in behind her. She did not slow or glance 
over a shoulder. It was now or never.
Ragnar’k dove toward the pale ship. Whether screams still filled its sail, 
Sy-wen could not say. Winds howled around her, blanketing her. The sails of the 
other ship swelled as the dragon swooped down; its bone deck grew wide.
It was not empty.
As she had feared, Hunt had roused the ship. But it was too late to turn back.
“Ta/^e them down!” she shouted into the wind.
Ragnar’k was an arrow pointed at the center of the deck. Sy-wen ducked lower. 
The dragon’s scales were a hearth burning under her. At the last moment, his 
wings shot out, cupping the wind. Clawed legs swung forward to land.
Men on deck fled from the onslaught, lest they be crushed.
Ragnar’k roared as he smote the deck, scattering all from his path. Claws dug 
into the bony planks. Sy-wen was thrown forward by the impact, but she was held 
fast by her mount. She crouched up as one wing lashed out and snapped the bone 
of the foremast, toppling it seaward.
As the possessed fled the dragon, she glanced back and saw the Ravenswing sweep 
over the boat. Ropes dropped from hatches in the bow and stern. Ladders 
unfurled, thrown over the rails.
From the hatches, elv’in dropped headfirst down the ropes with one leg twisted 
in the lengths as support. They looked to be plunging to their deaths, but at 
the last moment they slowed, then flipped to land catlike on the deck, swords 
ready.
Following them down the ladders, the Bloodriders clambered and slid with equal 
alacrity. They leaped to the deck, bellowing war cries, armed with axes and 
swords.
Then the two forces met. The possessed fought like wild beasts. Once Dre’rendi 
themselves, they were skilled fighters; now, directed by the creatures inside 
them, they used tooth and nail as readily as their blades.
Screams rose all around. Sails snapped as if in a tempest.
By the stern, a line of archers dropped to their knees and shot flaming arrows 
skyward, peppering the underside the Ravenswing. Fires ignited, but buckets of 
water were cast upon the small blazes before they could spread.
Around the dragon, the fighting grew fierce. Sy-wen sat in the eye of the storm. 
The dragon’s wings protected her, while Ragnar’k snatched any of the enemy who 
came too near. Their broken bodies were tossed overboard.
Across the deck, blood washed over bone.
From her perch, Sy-wen was the only one to notice the transformation. The bloody 
bones of the deck rippled. Leathery flesh grew as if fed by the blood and gore. 
Gasping, she realized the fight was feeding the foul creation, bringing it from 
bone to life.
She yelled across the deck. “Beware! The ship comes alive!”
But the sounds of battle muffled her warning. She watched an elv’in step on a 
patch of transformed deck. Under his feet, a maw opened, lined by sharp teeth. 
Caught by surprise, he fell into the waiting jaws, arms flailing. As he slid 
down, the teeth clamped shut, biting through his chest with a crunch of bone. He 
didn’t even have time to scream. Few noted his fate.
The others must be warned! she cried to her dragon. Already the spread of flesh 
swept over the decks.
Be ready! Ragnar’k answered.
The dragon’s chest swelled under her; then he stretched his neck and roared with 
all his might. The cry split the sounds of battle.
Sy-wen did not wait. In the moment of stunned silence that followed, she 
screamed to be heard. “Beware the ship! It comes to life under you!”
Several of the combatants stared down at the decks. Others retreated from the 
flow of flesh.
Then the fighting resumed. The tides of battle turned against them. The 
possessed fought with renewed vigor, aided now by the ship itself. Jagged mouths 
appeared everywhere, snaking out with fleshy tongues to drag attackers to their 
doom.
A horn sounded from above, the call to retreat.
Men leaped to ropes and ladders. The possessed attempted to follow but were 
kicked off or cut free. The Ravenswing lurched away.
Ragnar’k spread his wings and leaped skyward to follow. But the blood-fed ship 
was not ready to let them escape. The transformation swept up the mast, changing 
bone into a clawed limb.
Without momentum or the speed to escape, Ragnar’k was snatched from the skies, 
gripped by a hind leg. Sy-wen was jarred from her seat and flung sideways. But 
before she could fall to the monstrous deck below, her left leg was wrenched, 
twisting her knee savagely. Crying out, she hung by one ankle from the dragon, 
her foot still locked in one flap.
Ragnar’k snaked his neck around and bit into the clawed grip that held him. Bone 
broke. Spouts of black blood ran down the mast, but still the claw held, 
dragging them back to the deck.
Then a bloom of flame exploded from the ship below, shooting high into the sky.
Sy-wen was baffled by the fire until she saw a pair of barrels topple past her. 
They struck the deck and burst with fiery blasts. She craned up and saw the 
Ravenswing above them. More barrels were being shoved out hatches to bombard the 
monstrous ship.
Attacked anew, the claw weakened enough for Ragnar’k to break free. But the 
dragon was off-kilter, too close to the deck. He fell before he could get his 
wings out to catch himself. He struck the deck hard, managing at the last moment 
to roll and swing Sy-wen above him to keep from crushing her under his own 
weight. Bonded!
“I’m safe,” she gasped out, swinging to resume her seat. Then an arrow struck 
her shoulder. The impact more than the pain surprised her. She sprawled across 
the dragon’s neck.
Ragnar’k, sharing her senses, roared in fury.
Sy-wen turned to see Hunt toss aside his bow and leap atop the dragon’s back, 
his sword raised above his head.
She tried to raise an arm in defense, but pain from the arrow dimmed her vision. 
The sword plunged toward her.
°
Then Hunt was torn from the dragon’s back, flung upward. His sword went flying 
as Ragnar’k shook the Bloodrider gripped in his jaws.
No! Sy-wen sent, sensing the murderous intent of her mount. To the Ravenswing.
Muscle surged under her, then they were aloft. She watched more barrels strike 
the ship, exploding with flame. It burned from prow to stern, igniting the 
marrow of the bone ship.
Ragnar’k banked away as the ship sank under the waves. The last she saw of the 
monstrous thing was its living mast clawing at the skies before it, too, sank 
away.
She closed her eyes, blacking out. When she opened her eyes, she was back on the 
Ravenswing. Men and elv’in bustled around her.
She pushed up, but a familiar voice warned her, “Lie still, my dear.” It was 
Master Edyll. “We’ve taken the arrow out, but a healer’s gone to fetch more 
dragon’s blood.”
She nodded weakly. The blood of a dragon could heal any wound— except for the 
evil inside her. She lay stretched atop the warm dragon. Ragnar’f^…
I’m here, my bonded… I’m safe.
She sighed. Across the deck, she saw Hunt pinned to the deck, a Blood-rider on 
each limb. His upper torso had been stripped and an arc of bite wounds marked 
his flesh. An elv’in healer attempted to minister to his injuries, but he 
thrashed and fought, howling and snapping like a wild dog.
/ carried him to the ship, Ragnar’k explained, sensing her confusion. As you 
wanted.
She remembered her last order when the dragon had attacked Hunt. She had only 
meant for the dragon to drop the Bloodrider and escape, but Ragnar’k must have 
divined her heart, known the affection she had for the large man.
From atop the dragon, she watched Hunt struggle and howl. Soon she would be 
doing the same. Without the dragon’s magick, the demon would overwhelm her 
again, turning her into a raving beast. Tears welled at this thought—and with 
her vision blurred, she was a moment too late in noticing the danger to another. 
She shoved up despite the pain in her shoulder. “Sheeshon! No!”
The tiny girl had broken through the milling warriors and dropped beside the 
pinned Hunt. She reached to her bonded Bloodrider. “I have need of you.” Her 
fingers touched Hunt’s tattoo, and his body convulsed with the magickal 
connection. The reaction was so violent and sudden that the guards holding the 
man were knocked aside.
°
Sy-wen fought to go to her aid, but the dragon held her ankles, refusing to let 
her go.
Hunt grabbed up the small girl.
“No!” Sy-wen moaned.
But instead of any harm, Hunt curled his limbs around Sheeshon protectively. A 
sob escaped the large man’s throat as he kissed the top of her head.
Pikes and swords surrounded the pair. Master Edyll pushed forward.
“Master Hunt… ?”
“I’m myself,” he gasped. “Sheeshon’s touch—it broke the creature’s hold.”
Sheeshon nodded, her small hands hugging tight. “But he still has worms in his 
head.”
Master Edyll glanced between Hunt and Sy-wen. “Like Sy-wen’s bond to her dragon. 
As long as Sheeshon ignites the magickal bond and stays in contact—”
“He’ll be free,” Sy-wen mumbled to herself. It cheered her to see the two 
together—it fueled her hope that one day the same might be true for her and 
Kast.
A healer appeared at her side with a small cask of dragon’s blood, “We should 
see to your injuries,” he said.
She nodded, but she knew there were no salves to heal her deepest wounds. 
Instead, she watched Hunt and Sheeshon as the healer worked on her shoulder. For 
the moment, she forgot her despair.
One day, my love… One day I’ll hold you in my arms again.
Belowdecks aboard the Dragonsheart, Kast leaned over a table covered with sea 
charts and maps. The high keel and his portly advisor, Bila-tus, stood on the 
other side of the table. Three days had passed since the sinking of the bone 
ship, and in another two days, they would lead the fleets to Blackhall.
Shaman Bilatus straightened with a groan. “Perhaps we could plan better 
strategies if our eyes weren’t crossing with exhaustion.” He ran a hand over his 
balding pate and shrugged his blue robes higher on his shoulder.
The high keel matched the shaman’s tired expression, but he just stared harder 
at the scrolls and outlines. Kast understood his determination: the man had seen 
what had become of his son. Kast and the high keel shared this personal torment: 
to see a loved one suffer and be unable to help.
“The attacks grow bolder upon us,” the high keel grumbled. “The mer’ai had to 
fend off another assault by a kraken this morning.”
“I heard,” Kast said. “And the elv’in were harried by patrols of skal’tum last 
night.”
The high keel slammed a fist on the table. “We should strike now! Why this 
cursed waiting?”
“You know why,” Kast answered. “Tyrus leads the d’warves through the Stone 
Forest. They aren’t in position to attack the north entrance of the mountain.”
“Let them join the fighting when they can! What’s to stop us from striking at 
the south?”
Kast sighed. It was an old argument; the broader plan had already been laid out. 
There were only two ways into Blackhall. As the sun rose two days from now, the 
d’warves would attack over the land bridge from the north while the Dre’rendi 
and mer’ai assaulted the southern seaport and the elv’in warships gave support 
from the air to both parties.
The finer details were still fluid and under discussion by various fleets. Day 
and night, crows flew between ships on the sea and in the air. Messenger riders 
swept through the ocean depths atop their dragons with final orders or 
suggestions. The complete plan was coming together. Now was not the time to 
rush.
As the high keel grumbled, Kast glanced to Bilatus. The shaman placed a hand on 
the old man’s shoulder. “You need to rest.”
The high keel shook out of his grip. “Leave me be!”
Kast cracked a kink in his back. “Well, I need some fresh air,” he said. “We’ll 
come back to this at moonrise.”
“I could use something from the galley,” the high keel conceded grudgingly.
“I’ll join you down there,” Kast said. “I’m going to walk the deck first.”
The other pair nodded. Together they left the room and went their separate ways.
Kast climbed atop the deck and breathed in the night air. It smelled of salt and 
sulfur. The cold winds turned steamy for a breath as a stray breeze gusted from 
another direction. These were strange seas indeed.
He crossed to the starboard rail. The dark sea was filled with sails all around. 
Overhead, elv’in ships hovered or floated over the masts, great black 
thunderheads aglow with ruddy fires. In the distance, Kast could make out the 
piping of dragons. Closer by, a lute was playing softly, while somewhere else, a 
seaman sang to the night of some missing love.
io
Kast leaned on the rail. It would all be over soon. He shook his head. All this 
planning was for naught. The true war would be fought on another field far from 
here.
Whatever final evil the Dark Lord expected to visit on this world, its heart was 
not to be found among these strange seas. Their efforts here were no more than a 
feint, a distraction against the true attack.
Kast didn’t even dare glance to the east, toward the distant mountains and the 
small town of Winterfell. That was not his battle.
Instead he focused on the north, where the horizons glowed a fiery red, where a 
dark shadow loomed, waiting.
A shadow named Blackhall.
WINTER

Tol’chuk sat before the fire at his family’s hearth. Dawn was a short way off; 
the others were still rolled into blankets around the floor.
He gazed into the flames, content with these quiet moments before the true day 
started. Across the cavern, a calm silence filled the space. No shouts, no 
challenges, no demands on his time.
But that would change as soon as the sun rose. As the new spiritual leader of 
the tribes, the clans were his responsibility. It was a weight as heavy as the 
stone in his thigh pouch. His fingers settled to the goatskin satchel.
The Heart remained corrupted, transformed into ebon’stone by the blood of the 
ill’guard Vira’ni. He feared bringing the stone near the Spirit Gate in the core 
of the mountain, lest its corruption spread into the heart-stone arch. Thus he 
dared not open the Gate and consult Sisa’kofa for guidance. Days passed, while 
the last words of Sisa’kofa still echoed in his chest: The Spirit Gate must be 
protected… You must be this guardian.
But what was he to do from here? He had united the clans, rooted out the 
treachery of the Ku’ukla. But the tribes grew impatient. Og’res were not known 
for their cooperation nor for their easy temperament. Skirmishes broke out daily 
among the gathered og’res.
Some direction was needed, and all eyes turned to him. But what was he to do? 
Where did they go from here?
The sound of running feet drew his attention to Mogweed. The shape-shifter raced 
across the cavern toward the hearth. He had taken to nighttime sojourns, getting 
braver each evening, venturing farther from the warmth of the hearth.
M
From his pale face, it looked as if something had frightened or excited him. “A 
ship!” he blurted, gasping. Tol’chuk stood, frowning.
Mogweed waved an arm toward the brightening entrance to the cavern. “An elv’in 
ship! Coming from the south!”
His shouts roused the others. Blankets were thrown back. Magnam rolled to his 
feet. “Is it Jerrick’s scoutship?” the d’warf asked, rubbing at one eye. “The 
one we hid?”
“No, it’s larger! Someone comes! Maybe they mean to rescue us!” Jaston sat up, 
half cradling the small swamp child in his arms. Her wings stretched as she 
woke. “It must be from A’loa Glen. Maybe they received the crow sent from Cassa 
Dar.”
Tol’chuk hoped so. Through the swamp child, they had communicated all that had 
occurred here to Cassa Dar, and she had sent a crow to A’loa Glen with the 
information. But so far there had been no response.
Magnam scowled. “I doubt a ship could reach here so quickly from the island. 
It’s been only a handful of days.”
“But it is an elv’in ship!” Mogweed all but danced. “Come see! The og’res camped 
outside are already rousing—the sight has them spooked.” Tol’chuk grabbed a 
cloak and waved Mogweed forward. They’d best hurry. A flying ship could set the 
whole encamped valley into a panic.
Mogweed rushed toward the entrance with the others trailing. But as he reached 
the threshold, his feet suddenly went out from under him, sending him sprawling 
with a howl to the stone floor.
Tol’chuk reached a clawed hand to help him up, but the man shoved to his feet on 
his own. He straightened and ran a hand through his hair, then turned a baffled 
face toward Tol’chuk. “What’s happening?”
Tol’chuk sighed and nodded to Magnam. “Tell Fardale about the ship.” He pushed 
past the dazed shape-shifter and stared at the sun rising to the east. Dawn. The 
twins had traded places again.
Beyond the cavern entrance, the valley floor was aglow with hundreds of 
campfires. The meadow grasses were beaten to mud by the many og’res assembled 
here, as if a rain of boulders had fallen from the slopes of the Northern Fang. 
Already sounds of alarm were spreading throughout the valley. Og’res stood and 
pointed toward the southern skies. Females bleated nervously.
Tol’chuk stared across the valley. Night still ruled the skies to the west, but 
the uppermost cliffs of the Fang were already bathed in sunlight. As he searched 
the skies, he spotted the ship sailing from the south. Still in darkness, its 
iron keel glowed with ruddy magick, while lamps in the rig-
*
ging lit the billowing sails. Then the ship hoved around the flank of a cliff 
and crested into sunlight. It burst into dawn with a shimmer of sailcloth and 
the gentle warmth of its dark wood.
Cries grew louder among the og’res.
Hun’shwa appeared from among the mass and loped over to the group gathered at 
the entrance to the Toktala cavern. “What new demon attacks?” he asked in Og’re. 
The war leader of the tribes bore a club in his free hand, knuckling on his 
other. He was ready to fight.
“I believe they be friends,” Tol’chuk answered in the common tongue. “Allies.”
Hun’shwa glanced doubtfully to the ship sweeping toward the valley.
“Find the head of each clan,” Tol’chuk said. “Spread word that the ship must not 
be attacked.”
Hun’shwa nodded with a grunt. “It will be done.” Then he loped down the slope, 
bellowing for the clan heads to gather.
Jaston stepped forward with the winged swamp child at his knee. The girl sucked 
a thumb and stared wide-eyed at the sky. “Pretty,” she mumbled around her thumb.
“I’ll send the swamp child up to the ship,” Jaston said. “Cassa Dar can let them 
know where we are, what the condition is down here.”
Tol’chuk nodded, but one eye narrowed as he watched the ship. As the elv’in 
craft flew closer, a great flock of birds followed, swooping and diving in its 
wake, as if blown up from the rimwood forests in the lower valleys. With each 
breath, more and more appeared, filling the skies.
“What’s with all the birds?” Magnam asked on his other side, voicing Tol’chuk’s 
own concern.
As answer, Fardale shoved through them, knocking into Jaston. He craned up, his 
face frozen in disbelief. “Si’lura!” he gasped.
Tol’chuk moved alongside him. “What be you saying?”
Fardale swept a hand across the sky. “The eagles and hawks… they’re all my 
people!”
Tol’chuk frowned at the dark flock building up behind the handsome ship. A 
shape-shifter army? Either it was an invasion from the Western Reaches, or more 
forces than the og’re legions had been swept here by the tides of fate. Tol’chuk 
wished he had risked unlocking the Spirit Gate and consulting Sisa’kofa. “Send 
the swamp child,” he ordered Jaston. “Let’s find out who comes with such an 
army.”
“Look!” Magnam called out.
All eyes focused back to the ship. A bloom of fire suddenly flared over the 
ship’s prow. It blazed high into the sky, shooting above the masts.
i
Og’res fled from the ship’s shadow, panicked by the display. Hun’shwa could be 
heard bellowing for calm.
In the sky, the ball of fire coalesced into a giant rose, petals of fire opening 
to the dawn. More gasps and shouts echoed over the valley.
The group at the cavern entrance had gone mute, mouths hanging open. They all 
knew the sigil blazing in the skies.
“It be Elena!” Tol’chuk finally said, his voice full of shock.
“How could she be here?” Magnam asked.
Tol’chuk gaped up at the ship, the fiery rose, the gathered army. A cold dread 
entered his heart. He sensed many paths gathered here this day, paths foretold 
in prophecies as old as these same mountains. But from this day forward, no 
magick could divine the road ahead. They stood poised on a cusp of fate, 
darkness all around, and only one light to lead them from here.
Tol’chuk stared up at the blazing rose of wit’ch fire and prayed Elena was 
strong enough to bear such a burden.
Er’ril lowered the spyglass. Elena stood beside him, her right hand extended 
toward the skies. He watched as she deftly tied off her magick and slipped a 
calfskin glove over her ruby hand, now a touch paler after the magickal display.
He stepped to her side. “I’ve spotted Tol’chuk and Mogweed by the cavern 
entrance,” he said.
“So they’re still here… good.” Her eyes still shone with the song of her wild 
magicks.
“I also saw Jaston with them.”
Her brow crinkled. “The swamper? Are you sure?” The confusion dimmed the glow of 
magick in her face, and Er’ril was glad for it. Warmth reentered her features.
“It’s hard to mistake that scarred face,” he assured her, taking her arm. The 
others lined the rails to either side, but he didn’t care who saw; he was long 
past hiding his affection for Elena. “I watched Jaston kneeling beside some 
strange child. It takes wing toward us as I speak.”
“A winged child?” She searched the skies until she spotted the small figure in 
flight. “Could it be one of Cassa Dar’s creations?”
Er’ril shrugged. “It seems we’ll all have stories to share.”
Together, they gazed out at the valley below, lit with morning fires and covered 
with the rocky shapes of hundreds of og’res.
“It’ll be good to see Tol’chuk and everyone else again,” Elena murmured.
Er’ril heard the trace of regret in her voice. He kissed the top of her head. 
The last days here aboard the Windsprite had been calm and restful: no threats, 
no monsters, no dark magicks, only the sun, the wind, and the skies. But now the 
signs of the war showed clearly on the earth below: burned homesteads, skeletal 
remains of towns, and bands of strange beasts roaming the forest.
Er’ril suddenly understood the elv’in nature a little better. Above, in the open 
skies, the world seemed a simpler and brighter place.
“We could always just keep flying,” he whispered in her ear.
She slipped her arms around him. “Don’t tempt me.”
How he wished it were that easy. But he knew there were no words to sway Elena 
from her true course. So he allowed her this small illusion of this possibility 
of escape. “The winged child comes,” he noted.
He felt her sigh. “Then it’s time to return to the world,” she whispered into 
his chest.
Er’ril lifted her face and wiped the tears from her eyes before anyone else saw 
them. “We’ll face it together.”
By midday, Elena was bone-tired as she called the war council to or-der. The 
tensions between the shape-shifters and the ogres remained thick. Both sides had 
long histories of isolation and mistrust. How could she forge them into a single 
army, when she doubted she had the strength for even this meeting? Earlier, the 
reunions between Elena’s group and Tol’chuk’s had been joyous but still heavy 
with sorrow.
Jerrickj Mama Freda, and little Ti^al… all dead.
She sat, her eyes still puffy from unshed tears. After she heard the story of 
Vira’ni reborn and the treachery here, a hopelessness had dragged on her spirit, 
and she had seen the stricken look on Er’ril’s face. He had once loved 
Vira’ni—and now this abomination had been unleashed upon the mountains and had 
taken the lives of their friends. Did the evil in this world never die?
She reached a hand to Er’ril. He squeezed her fingers. Everyone was gathered. It 
was time to begin.
She stood and stared around the chamber as torches of blue flame danced shadows 
on the walls. Tol’chuk had named this place the Chamber of the Spirits, a sacred 
cavern to the og’re tribes. To one side of the central fire, the five heads of 
the og’re clans had gathered with their lieutenants. Across from them sat the 
elder’root and his cadre of fellow shape-shifters. Between them were the members 
of her own party.
All eyes were upon her.
Elena spoke firmly. “Three nights from now, when the moon waxes full, the world 
will end.” She stared around at the mix of faces and races. “All our worlds. Not 
just the forests of the Western Reaches, not just the mountains of the Fang, not 
just the islands of the coast nor the plains beyond. All our worlds will end.”
She let her words soak into the crowd.
“You know this to be true?” Hun’shwa, the war leader of the united clans, asked.
Elena glanced to Harlequin Quail, then back to Hun’shwa. “We have word from a 
trusted source. But on our journey here, we have seen the fires burning among 
the foothill villages. We have seen the camps gathering in the highlands below 
your peak.”
Tol’chuk spoke from his bouldered seat. “Even the Triad spoke of this danger 
before passing on.”
Hun’shwa nodded. Grumbles passed among the other og’res.
“What are we to do?” the elder’root asked. He wore a white robe and no other 
adornment, setting aside his crown of leaves for this meeting.
Elena waved Er’ril to stand.
Dressed in black finery, he was an imposing figure. His black hair had been 
pulled back into a severe braid. His cheeks still glowed from the blade he had 
used to shave his stubble.
A thrill passed through her at the sight of him. On the trip here, they had come 
to share, if not their bodies, at least their bed. Under the blankets, away from 
eyes and responsibilities, they had spent quiet moments sharing the warmth of 
each other’s touches, exploring boundaries that neither were ready to cross yet.
Er’ril spoke to the gathered heads, drawing her back to the moment. “A great 
evil has been brought into these highlands, a statue of foul black stone 
sculpted into the likeness of a wyvern. It is the heart of the darkness that 
threatens our world. In the next two days, we will send scouts by air and on the 
ground. We must hunt out where it has been hidden—for when the sun rises in two 
days’ time, we will bring both our armies down upon its lair and destroy it.”
“This will stop the evil?” Hun’shwa asked.
Elena sighed as Er’ril glanced to her. She remembered the demoness Vira’ni. 
“Evil will always survive,” she said plainly.
JAMES ULEMENS
Concerned murmurs rose from the gathering.
“But our efforts will protect the world for now,” she finished. “It is all one 
can do in life—fight evil where it is found.”
“Where will it be found?” the elder’root asked. “The foothills are vast. A 
search for a single statue could consume hundreds of days, not just two.”
“We know roughly where the statue was going,” she said. “To Winter-fell… the 
place where I grew up.”
Stunned silence met this revelation.
But the next to speak surprised even Elena. “I know more exactly where such an 
evil might lie.” The words came from the strange child at Jaston’s side—one of 
the swamp wit’ch’s golems, a winged girl of perfect beauty. But the voice that 
spoke was ancient and came from much farther than the boundaries of this room: 
It was Cassa Dar. “When I studied the texts to send Jaston from one Fang to the 
other, I came upon a treatise that spoke of the confluence of elemental energies 
between the two Fangs. If the Weirgate is positioned anywhere, I wager it will 
be there.”
“And where is that?” Elena asked.
“If my calculations are correct, at a place named Winter’s Eyrie.”
Elena gasped. Er’ril tensed beside her. The place had a long and bloody history. 
It was where her Uncle Bol had set up his cabin and met his death. In Er’ril’s 
time, it was where the Chyric mages had their school—until it was sacked by the 
Gul’gothal armies and destroyed. And in the caverns under the Eyrie, Elena and 
Er’ril had discovered the living crystal statue of the boy, De’nal, pierced 
through the heart by Er’ril’s own sword. So much tragedy had grown out of that 
one spot… Could it be true? Could they have come full circle back to where all 
their journeys had started?
“Winter’s Eyrie…”
“It’ll be a place to start looking,” Er’ril whispered.
An icy dread shivered Elena’s spine. The Eyrie was fraught with awful memories: 
the dark tunnels, the hiss of goblins, the fight with the mul‘-gothra in the 
open field. It was on those empty highlands she had come to accept her power.
“And if the statue be there,” one of the clan leaders said gruffly, “who will 
lead the armies in two days’ time?” The og’re stared with suspicion toward the 
elder’root and his shape-shifters.
Elena tried to answer this question. “Each army will have its own leader. 
Hun’shwa for the og’res. The elder’root for the si’lura.”
This was met with murmurs of agreement, but Er’ril placed a restraining hand on 
her elbow. “No!” he said boldly.
O
Angry eyes turned in his direction. Elena’s brow crinkled. “Er’ril… ?” She had 
hoped to settle the matter without strife, but she saw the hard look in his eyes 
and remained quiet.
“An army divided is twice as likely to be vanquished,” he declared. “Any hope 
for victory will require the full cooperation of both sides. I’ve fought many 
campaigns against the Dark Lord’s forces. Alasea was lost the first time because 
our lands were fractured, our peoples too concerned with their own lands rather 
than the greater cause. I will not see that happen here, not on a battlefield 
where the fate of the world teeters. We will be one army! That we will settle 
right now!”
Elena’s eyes widened. She had not seen such fire in him in a long time, as if he 
was coming awake after a prolonged slumber. Having been cast aside as her 
guardian, stripped of his immortality, and given the token badge of her 
liegeman, he had lately grown more dour and ill at ease. But here he had clearly 
found his footing again, coming alive as when she first met him.
“We will choose a leader here! Now!”
In the tense moment that followed, an og’re spoke from near the back wall, bold 
in his anonymity. “Who will that be? You? A man?”
An eruption of angry outbursts followed. Er’ril simply stood before the 
onslaught, a boulder in a stormy sea. He waited until the tide ebbed. “No,” he 
said. “My place is beside Elena.”
She thought to object; he would make an excellent commander. But he backed a 
step and glanced to her, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and for the first time, 
she saw satisfaction in his eyes rather than simple responsibility. This was 
where he wanted to be, not where he had to be. “Then who?” the speaker called 
from the back wall. Er’ril shrugged. “That is for you all to decide.” New 
arguments ensued.
“Er’ril,” Elena whispered out of the side of her mouth, “is this wise? We don’t 
want to start a war in this very room.”
“Patience, my love. They will choose the right one.”
“Why?”
“Because they know I’m right. They will choose, but like all leaders, they must 
be allowed to bluster a bit.”
“Are you sure?”
He squeezed her hand. “It’s worked many a time on you.” She glanced to him, not 
sure if she should be shocked or amused. Before she could decide, a voice 
bellowed through the raging debate.
JAMES CLEMENS
I
“There be a clear choice!” Hun’shwa bulled forward. He swung his thick arm and 
pointed. “I say Tol’chuk!”
A moment of quiet followed his outburst, but faces screwed into expressions of 
doubt, even among the og’res. Tol’chuk looked the most shocked of all.
“He be already our spiritual leader,” Hun’shwa said to the heads of his own 
clans. “But he also showed his bravery in the battle against Vira’ni. He saved 
our families’ lives!”
A murmur of agreement passed through the og’res.
Hun’shwa turned to the si’lura. “In his veins runs the blood of your own people. 
If we join og’re army to shape-shifter, then the best leader be of both bloods!”
Elena opened her mouth to agree, but Er’ril squeezed her hand. “Not yet,” he 
whispered.
The elder’root conferred with his own people, then faced Hun’shwa. “We do not 
know this og’re. We can’t place the trust of—”
“Trust?” Fardale stepped forward, still wearing Mogweed’s face. He had been 
standing tensely with Thorn, the daughter of the elder’root. With the urgency 
and press of the two armies coming together, the pair had little time together, 
and from their half-angry postures, there was still much unspoken between them. 
“If it is his trustworthiness you question,” Fardale continued as he strode up 
to Tol’chuk, “then doubt my own heart. I know this fellow. You will find none 
more fierce in his loyalty in all the lands. Loyal not just to his og’re clans 
nor his si’luran friends, but to all who are good of heart and who care for the 
fate of our peoples.”
The elder’root remained expressionless.
Thorn spoke at his side. “Father, the Root sent us to the twins. Perhaps we 
should heed Fardale in this matter.”
A long sigh escaped the elder’root. “So be it.”
Only one person remained unconvinced. Tol’chuk stood up. “I’m no war leader.”
Er’ril slipped from Elena’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what 
makes you the best choice. You’ll take counsel from both sides without 
prejudice. That’s the most important feature of a leader, to surround himself 
with wise counsel and heed their words.”
Tol’chuk stared at the plainsman as if he were mad, but he remained silent. Even 
he knew a leader was needed to unite the two armies, even if only as a 
figurehead.
Magnam rolled his eyes. “First, spiritual leader, now the head of two armies. 
What next, The Nameless One’s throne?” His wide grin blunted his words.
Elena stared as Er’ril clapped Tol’chuk on the shoulder a final time and turned 
back to her. “You knew they would choose Tol’chuk,” she said as he stepped to 
her side.
He shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a long time.”
Behind Er’ril’s shoulder, Tol’chuk was swamped by the other leaders. Elena felt 
sorry for their friend. “Will he be all right?”
“He’ll manage. We all will.”
Jaston brought the swamp child over to them. “I suppose Tol’chuk will be 
occupied for a time.”
“No doubt,” Er’ril agreed.
Jaston shifted closer. “Then I’d best be the one to tell you this. Tol’chuk had 
wanted to wait until after the council to speak to you alone, but we shouldn’t 
wait any longer.”
“Speak to us about what?” she asked.
Jaston pulled the pair a few steps away and lowered his voice. “It’s about 
Sisa’kofa.”
Er’ril jerked in surprise. “What?” His hand fell to the rose pommel of the sword 
at his belt, Sisa’kofa’s own sword.
Jaston’s next words made no sense, but they still shivered Elena’s skin. “The 
wit’ch waits for you down below.”
JoACH SAT IN THE MIDDAY SUMMER SUN, HIS NOSE CRINKLING AT THE SMELL
of the og’re camp in the valley below. The heat felt good on his aching bones. 
After the days of cold travel aboard the Wtndsprite, he had not thought his 
limbs would ever thaw.
Seated near the cavern, he heard a commotion behind him.
“The council must be breaking up,” Greshym said. The darkmage sat a few paces 
away, basking, too. His skin had been bronzed by the wind and the sun aboard the 
elv’in ship. His hair shone with copper and brown. He all but glowed with his 
stolen youth. Beyond him stood a pair of shape-shifters with spears and slung 
bows, guarding the mage. Greshym ignored them. “Why didn’t you attend?”
Joach heard the silky smoothness in the other’s voice, sly and full of artifice, 
but he answered anyway. “It’s a war council. Look at this body. Do you think 
I’ll be leading the assault into the foothills?”
Greshym shrugged. “A dream sculptor of your skill is not without resources. Have 
you practiced the magick I taught you?”
Sighing, Joach fingered the length of gray petrified wood. Despite his initial 
misgivings on the journey here, he had taken to trying the spells gleaned from 
the darkmage. They had indeed refined his sculpting ability. One spell had even 
strengthened his ties to the staff, weaving blood and stone more intimately for 
better control.
“Show me,” Greshym said. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
Joach glanced to the pair of shape-shifters, but their attention was elsewhere. 
With his magick stripped by Cho’s spell, Greshym posed little danger.
Happy to demonstrate his skill, Joach shook off his glove and shifted his staff. 
As his flesh touched the stony wood, he felt the familiar tug on his heart. He 
watched veins of crimson flow into the length, his blood feeding the staff. In a 
matter of heartbeats, the gray wood had lightened to white. Exhilaration 
trembled through his body, a sense of the power at his fingertips. He had barely 
delved the surface of the dream magicks stored in the staff. He pointed its butt 
end toward the ground, and his lips moved in a silent spell. From the end of the 
staff, dribbles of blood seeped into the trampled mud at his feet, his own blood 
running through the stone, a trick of the spell Greshym had taught him.
Following the drops of blood, Joach sent his spirit slipping out into the hazy 
landscape between reality and dream. Atop the mud, a simple rose grew out of the 
dreaming, pushing into this existence. But it was no sandy construction. Its 
leaves were a summer green, its petals as crimson as his heart’s blood, its 
thorns as real as the staff he held.
The darkmage pursed his lips. “Not bad. You’re learning.”
“It’s perfect,” Joach said, trembling with the flow of blood between his flesh 
and the staff, suddenly cold again. The sun seemed to have been bled of its 
warmth.
Greshym leaned closer, studying it, then leaned back. “But there is no life in 
it. It might as well be a painting.”
He frowned at the criticism. “So?”
“We both know why you practice so hard, Joach, why you sit with me eking bits of 
arcane magick from my lore.” Greshym waved a hand dis-missively over the 
sculpted rose. “This will never do if you want to bring Kesla back from the 
sands.”
Joach swallowed, hardly breathing. “Then how? How do I bring life out of 
nothingness?”
Greshym shook his head. “You take and take from me, my aged boy, but you never 
give.” His voice lowered to a hushed whisper. “You are one step from piercing 
the final veil between true life and the mere appearance of life.”
Joach was no fool. He knew the darkmage had been passing on these stray bits of 
magick in the hopes of earning his eventual freedom. But there was only one 
spell he wanted to know, this last one: how to bring life into his creations. 
Yet each time he spoke with Greshym, he reached this same stubborn wall of 
resistance.
“Let me show you,” the darkmage said with an exasperated sigh. He reached a 
finger toward the rose.
Joach growled a warning, lifting his staff to ward him back. Greshym paused, 
finger hovering. “Fear not. You know I have no magick. I don’t even have the 
ability to steal magick from you or your staff. That cursed spell and book keep 
me dampened.”
Joach pulled back his staff. “Then show me what you intend to show me, and be 
done with it.”
Greshym touched a single petal, then straightened, dusting his fingers. Joach 
frowned. There seemed to be no change in the rose. “So?” The darkmage waved to 
the plant. “Look closer.” Joach leaned in, cocking his head. His spine sent 
pangs of protest as he bent over. “I don’t—” Then he saw it, at the corners of 
the leaves, brown curls, edges of decay that hadn’t been there a moment ago. But 
Greshym had no magick to alter his sculpting.
“It lives now,” Greshym said as if reading his thoughts. “It bows to time like 
all things. Nothing in life is perfect. With life comes all its imperfection.”
“Impossible…”
Greshym knelt forward, and before Joach could cry out, he yanked the rose from 
the mud and tossed it at Joach.
The attack roused the shape-shifter guards. Spears suddenly bristled, and 
Greshym was driven back to his seat.
“Look!” the darkmage spat. “Do you doubt your own eyes?” Joach waved the guards 
away as he slipped his glove back on, breaking the blood spell on his weapon. 
The petrified wood went gray again. He lifted the muddy rose from his lap; the 
fragrance filled his senses. He shook the clods of dirt from the other end. 
Roots! The rose had roots!
His hands began to shake. He had not sculpted roots. Why would such a creation 
need roots when he himself was the source of its growth? He stared toward 
Greshym, stunned. “How… ?”
The darkmage folded his arms. “You take and take.” Joach held the rose tenderly. 
Greshym had no magick—how could he have done this? Joach cradled the flower as 
if it were Kesla herself. Life… He brought it to life… He stared over at the 
darkmage. He could not hide the anguish and hope in his expression.
“I can teach you,” Greshym said. “And I can grant you half your youth back. I’ll 
keep half; you get half. Equal and fair.”
“I don’t care about the stolen winters,” he gasped. “Just the spell.”
Greshym cocked his head. “My boy, if you want to bring Kesla back, you’ll need 
both.”
Joach frowned.
“Life takes life, Joach. It is not born out of nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
Greshym nodded to the rose. “That flower cost me thirty-four days of my life. 
And if you want to bring Kesla back, it’ll take more than days… it’ll take a 
good chunk of your own life.” Greshym eyed Joach up and down. “Life which you 
can’t afford to give up in your current state.”
Joach found himself growing breathless, as if the air were suddenly too thin. 
“What will it cost me for this knowledge?”
“Nothing, my boy. All I ask is my freedom, and I’ll be on my way. I won’t even 
ask you to destroy your sister’s precious book.”
He could not hide his surprise.
“You drive a hard bargain, Joach. I realize that you can’t or won’t betray your 
sister. So be it. All I want is my freedom.”
“How can I trust you?”
Greshym shrugged. “With the book still bound, I’ll have no magick, not until I’m 
well away from its reach… at least five leagues, I believe. So if you let me go 
and I haven’t kept my end of the bargain, then there is nothing stopping you 
from catching me again. I can’t be more fair than that.”
“What of the war? Your knowledge… ?”
The darkmage rolled his eyes. “You know these highlands better than I. I’ve told 
you all I know already.”
Joach searched for a trick. “For your freedom, you’ll give me the secret of life 
and half my years back.”
Greshym nodded.
Joach could not bring himself to make this pact. He stood, still holding the 
rose. “I’ll need to think on it.”
“Don’t think too long, my boy. Once this final war starts, I expect the iron 
plainsman of Standi will find me more a risk than a boon to the cause. If you 
wait too long, you might find both your youth and my secrets spilled upon the 
ground at the point of his sharp sword.”
Joach knew these words to be true. If he was to make this bargain with Greshym, 
it would have to be in the next day.
He slipped the rose into a pocket of his cloak. “I will give you my answer by 
nightfall.”
Greshym watched the boy stalk off. He had noted the care with which the boy 
treated the rose. All Joach’s hopes for his love were wrapped in that little 
flower.
You’ve already given me your answer, Joach.
He leaned against the cliff wall. The midday sun heated his face as he closed 
his eyes. He searched out with his mind, but if Rukh was out there with his bone 
staff, the gnome was still too far away to be felt.
You’d better be out there, my dogged friend. If my plan is to succeed, I’ll
need that staff.
He sighed. He would keep his bargain with Joach—give him half his youth back and 
teach him the trick to bring life into his art. But he wasn’t going to leave. 
Freedom or not, he needed one other item.
Shadowsedge.
There was no more powerful talisman in all the world. Even the Dark Lord himself 
could not withstand the magick of that sword. Sisa’kofa had chosen wisely to 
hide her weapon in the energy-dampening nexus of the Western Reaches. Otherwise, 
the Black Heart would have smelled such a tool from across the world and hunted 
it down.
But now it was within his own reach! And he was not leaving without it.
Greshym soaked in the sun, content that this was his last day of captivity. He 
again pictured Joach pocketing his precious rose.
You’re mine again, boy, and this time, you’ll dance your way to your own doom. 
Whether you want to learn it or not, I’ll enlighten you on the most powerful 
blac’t magic’t of them all: the corrupting power of love.
Er’ril stood before Tol’chuk unable to believe what he was seeing. Impossible, 
he thought. The og’re held the Heart of his people—there was no mistaking its 
shape and size. But it had gone black with corruption, lined by streaks of 
silver.
“It’s ebon’stone!” Elena gasped.
Tol’chuk kept his back to the cavern, hunched over the stone. Almost all the war 
council members had abandoned the Chamber of the Spirits. Even Hun’shwa and the 
elder’root had left to discuss how best to scout the highlands around Winter’s 
Eyrie. Jaston had gone with them, offering the use of the winged swamp child to 
aid in surveillance. The only ones left were members of their immediate party: 
Nee’lahn, Meric, Harlequin Quail, Fardale, Thorn, and the d’warf Magnam. They 
clustered around the og’re.
Still, Tol’chuk kept his voice low. “The blood of Vira’ni corrupted the stone. I 
dare not risk opening the Spirit Gate. The taint of the stone might spread.” 
Tol’chuk had already explained about the ring of heartstone at the core of the 
Northern Fang and the spirit found bound to it: Sisa’kpfa.
“None but a handful know of the Heart’s corruption,” Tol’chuk finished.
Elena stepped forward and studied the stone, careful not to touch it. “If it 
changed once, there must be a way to change it back.”
Nee’lahn joined her. “The blood of an ill’guard transformed it. Maybe that is a 
clue.”
Meric nodded. “Tainted elemental blood corrupted the stone…” Nee’lahn 
straightened. “Then mayhaps pure elemental blood could purify it!”
Er’ril narrowed his eyes. Could the answer be that simple? “I’ll try,” Meric 
said.
“I don’t know,” Elena warned. “Ill’guard are created by ebon’stone. Its touch 
might harm you. Remember the ebon’stone Weirgates were capable of sucking the 
spirit from right out of your body.”
“But this is much smaller,” Meric said, growing excited. “Besides, I don’t have 
to touch it. I can just drizzle blood over it.”
“It’s worth trying,” Nee’lahn added quietly. Er’ril turned to Elena. “What do 
you think?”
Elena sighed. “Here is a heart of a mystery. Ebon’stone and heartstone. If we 
can discover the answer, it may help us in the war to come. We still have 
another Weirgate to destroy to free Chi.” She faced Meric. “Perhaps it is worth 
the risk.”
The elv’in prince nodded and slipped a dagger from his belt. Tol’chuk carefully 
laid the chunk of ebon’stone on the cavern floor and backed away. Biting his 
lip, Meric took his place before the Heart. He lifted his eyes to Elena, who 
nodded. Then he glanced to Nee’lahn. The nyphai stood with both fists clutched 
to her chest.
Meric grabbed the blade of his dagger, squeezing. The only sign of the pain was 
a slight squinting of his eyes. Blood flowed from his closed fist.
He lifted it over the Heart and bathed the black stone with his own blood.
The droplets struck the crystal and simply disappeared, sucked away into 
oblivion.
Meric frowned and tightened his fist, increasing the flow. “Maybe it takes 
more,” he mumbled between clenched teeth.
They all waited. Blood streamed into the stone, while some drops splattered on 
the stone floor. But the ebon’stone remained as black as ever. Only the silver 
veins in the stone seemed to glow as the foulness fed on Meric’s blood.
“Stop!” Elena said. “It’s clearly not working.”
Meric did not argue; the truth of her words was plain. Nee’lahn crossed to his 
side with a strip of linen from her own shirt. She helped wrap his hand.
Harlequin Quail shook his head. “Any other bloody ideas?”
Magnam grunted. The d’warf had stood with his arms crossed the entire time. His 
eyes flicked between Tol’chuk and the stone. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong. 
We’re not thinking large enough.”
“What do you mean?” Meric asked, his voice bitter with his defeat.
Magnam unfolded his arms and began to pace. “I’m not sure. But I think you were 
on the right path. Ebon’stone is heartstone tainted by the touch of an 
ill’guard’s blood. But what is an ill’guard?”
“A corrupted elemental,” Er’ril snapped. “What are you getting at?”
“Let me talk it out. Ebon’stone is to heartstone as an ill’guard is to an 
elemental.” Magnam continued to stalk. “So what is an elemental?”
“A person gifted with a bit of the Land’s magick,” Nee’lahn answered, 
straightening at Meric’s side.
“And what about heartstone itself?” Magnam continued. “Old Mad Mimbly said it’s 
the Land’s own blood.”
“I don’t see your point,” Er’ril said.
Meric answered. “Elementals bear the gift of the Land’s magick. Heartstone is 
the Land’s blood. The corruption of an elemental is not a corruption of his 
blood; it’s a corruption of the Land’s magick inside him!”
“So?”
“It’s not my blood that can purify the stone! It’s the Land’s blood!”
“Which is heartstone,” Elena cried, her eyes going wide. “Are you saying 
heartstone can cure ebon’stone?”
The d’warf shrugged. “According to Mad Mimbly, heartstone was essential to 
staving off the darkness that was to follow. We d’warves thought him addled, but 
maybe instead he was speaking the plainest truth.” Magnam turned to Tol’chuk. 
“And we saw Lord Boulder here demonstrate this very truth—when he freed you from 
the Manticore Weirgate, shattering you free with the chunk of rock at our feet.”
“And the Weirgate changed into heartstone!” Elena said.
“But it be the magick in the Heart that freed her,” Tol’chuk said. “Be this not 
so?”
Magnam shook his head. “That’s what we all thought. But now I wonder otherwise. 
In Gul’gotha, the Heart was empty of your people’s spirits. Did you not yourself 
declare the stone dead, just plain crystal? There was no extra magick in the 
Heart. It was simply heartstone, the Land’s own blood… but that was apparently 
magick enough.”
A stunned silence followed. If Magnam was right, the answer lay before them.
“Could this be true?” Elena asked, hushed.
“I remember something else,” Tol’chuk mumbled as he lifted the Heart from the 
floor. “In the cellars below Shadowbrook, the ill’guard Torwren feared the 
Heart. He fled from it. I thought he feared the magick in the stone, but maybe 
he merely feared the stone itself.”
Er’ril spoke into the silence that followed. “We all know how to find out if 
this cure will work or not.”
Their eyes left the ebon’stone Heart and focused on him.
“We test it,” he declared. “We see if the ring of heartstone can purify the 
Heart.”
Tol’chuk glanced to the tunnel. “If it fails, we risk the entire Gate.”
“I say we must attempt it,” Er’ril said firmly. “If it’s proven true, then we’ll 
have a real means of thwarting the Black Heart.”
Elena stepped to Tol’chuk’s side. She touched his elbow. “I agree. And I think 
you sense the truth of Magnam’s words.”
After a reluctant pause, Tol’chuk nodded, then turned to lead the way. “I will 
take you all to the Gate, but I pray we be correct.”
Elena met Er’ril’s gaze. He could read the worry in her eyes. It was a 
significant risk.
Meric and Nee’lahn followed Tol’chuk, with the others in tow. Er’ril followed 
with Elena. As they neared the tunnel, her hand slipped into his. Her fingers 
trembled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Could this have been the answer all along?” she mumbled. “If heartstone could 
purify ebon’stone, could it have been used to cure the ill’guard, too—Vira’ni 
and Krai, and so many others? If we had only known…”
He squeezed her fingers. “It’s certain doom to stare behind you and wonder at 
the paths you didn’t take. There is only one path anyone needs to walk, and 
that’s straight ahead of them.”
From a few steps ahead, Harlequin glanced back to them. He must have heard their 
words. “This is our only path? Great. I heard what Tol’chuk calls this passage.”
J
°
“What?” Elena asked.
Harlequin nodded to the tunnel ahead. “The Path of the Dead.”
“Oh…” Elena’s footsteps faltered.
Er’ril pulled her more snugly against his side. “It’s just a name, not an omen.” 
Still, like her, he knew what lay at the end of this tunnel. Either they would 
corrupt the Gate or open it—but which outcome was worse?
Both Elena and Er’ril had heard Tol’chuk’s story earlier. They knew what awaited 
them beyond the ring of heartstone at the core of the world. But neither of them 
wished to speak that name aloud.
Sisa’kpfa.
From the dark cell of his imprisonment, Mogweed stared out through Fardale’s 
eyes. All day long he had watched and listened…
And now they were headed to the Spirit Gate!
Now he studied the path they followed. He had tried these past many days to 
convince Tol’chuk to show him the arch of heartstone, but the og’re had refused, 
too wary of letting the chunk of ebon’stone near the Gate. Now, at long last, 
they were going there, but he was trapped in Fardale’s head, unable to act.
He cursed his luck.
At hand was the key to unlock his prison. He recalled the message from the Dark 
Lord, echoing out from the ebon’stone bowl: You must destroy the Spirit Gate… It 
must be shattered with the blood of my last seed! Mogweed stared past Meric and 
Nee’lahn. Tol’chuk strode with a torch raised before him, lighting the way.
It was Tol’chuk’s blood that could free Mogweed. All he had to do was slay the 
og’re at the Gate—then the Dark Lord would break the curse upon him. Of course, 
there was one more price to be paid for his freedom.
We will burn the wolf from your heart…
That was the final cost—Fardale’s life. According to the Dark Lord, only one 
could survive the breaking of the curse. One body, one spirit.
But could he take that step, too? The dilemma had weighed upon him these last 
days. Suddenly he was not so displeased with his current imprisonment. Chained 
up in Fardale’s skull, the choice was taken from him. For now, he would simply 
spy, and plot his victory for a later time, when his heart was not so 
conflicted.
Content in this realization, Mogweed allowed his attention to focus back to the 
world beyond Fardale’s eyes—even though his brother spent most of his time 
casting sidelong glances to his snowy-tressed companion. Thorn, the daughter of 
the elder’root, moved with easy grace down the tunnel. Mogweed could sense the 
wolfish lusts of his brother, the slight widening of his nostrils as he took in 
her scent, the thudding of his heart and drum of his blood.
Thorn, a wolf herself at heart, sensed Fardale’s attention. She slowed her pace 
to match his. Her eyes glowed with something unspoken. Then words filled his 
head, reaching both their minds. / must spea’t to you… I must tell you 
something…
Mogweed became lost in the mix of her emotions: fear, anger, shame, heartache, 
and a trace of the lust that matched Fardale’s own.
“What is it?” Fardale asked aloud, his words clipped and short. His brother’s 
anger clearly blinded him to the depth of Thorn’s emotions.
Mogweed smiled at the two former lovers, unable to speak their hearts. He 
enjoyed their torment. Fardale still anguished over his exile from the Western 
Reaches, by edict of Thorn’s own father. Fardale had begged her to come with 
him, but she had turned her back on him, refusing.
Thorn caught the edge of Fardale’s anger, and it plainly flared her own. Her 
eyes grew brighter in the dark tunnel. She continued to mindspeak. There is 
something I should have said before. You deserve to know.
Fardale remained silent. Anger bolted his tongue, while heartache kept him from 
reaching out with his inner thoughts.
Thorn continued. There was a reason I did not go with you from the forest. She 
suddenly glanced away and spoke aloud. “I wanted to… I truly did… but you left 
me no choice.”
“I?” Fardale’s outburst drew Meric’s attention. The elv’in glanced back. Fardale 
lowered his voice. “I begged you on my knee. I would have done anything to keep 
from leaving your side. How did I leave you no choice ?”
Fury rose in the glow of Thorn’s eyes… and a fierce pride. “You left me with 
child.”
Mogweed flinched in surprise—and whether it was his own shock or Fardale’s, the 
pair tripped in the tunnel, catching up against one wall. Fardale straightened. 
He met Thorn’s gaze fully. A child? he sent.
She nodded, keeping their eyes locked. An image formed: A wild babe running 
through the woods, his head covered by a crown of feathers, flagging a furred 
tail behind him. Thorn spoke aloud. “I named him Finch. He’s back in the forest, 
with the other children and the infirm.”
“I have a son…”
Fardale’s shock was no less than Mogweed’s.^ora . . .from the union the night 
they were cursed!
But Fardale’s surprise tilted and fell into a well of anger. “Why didn’t you 
tell me?”
“I didn’t know… not until after my father passed judgment upon you.” She turned 
from the hurt on Fardale’s face. “Then it was too late. You had to leave the 
forest. I knew if I told you of the child that you’d refuse to go. And I could 
not go with you… not with a growing belly and soon a child to care for.” She 
glanced back to Fardale. Her eyes shone with shame.
Fardale finally recognized her pain. “And you were scared,” he mumbled. “For 
yourself and your child…”
“And you,” she added in a whisper. “I knew you couldn’t stay, or you’d be lost 
to the wolf, settled into a wild beast with no memory of your heritage. But how 
it ached my heart to see you leave while knowing your baby was in my womb… 
especially when I could not say a word.”
Fardale went to her. Mogweed sensed their two hearts seeking each other. Images 
fluttered between them, too fast for the mind to follow, but not the heart, a 
lifetime of joys and sorrows shared in a moment. This was the greatest gift of 
the si’lura: to commune so intimately, through thoughts, memories, emotions.
Mogweed floated above these deeper sendings. He could not reach that far into 
his brother’s spirit. But still he sensed their thoughts, a barest flicker of a 
richer flame.
Mogweed found he had been jealous of his brother before—but never as much as 
now. He retreated from their union, not to give them privacy, but from shame and 
a nameless pain that welled through him. He turned his back upon the fire of 
their passion and sought the oblivion of cool darkness.
And as the walls of his cell closed around him, Mogweed stoked fire inside. He 
knew there was only one true way to escape this prison. No matter what the price 
in blood… / must brea’tfree.
Elena sensed the tunnel’s end.
With each step deeper underground, a pressure built, pushing upon her ears and 
chest, making breathing increasingly difficult. It was as if she were again 
sinking into the bottomless pool around the Root of the world.
Er’ril would occasionally comment on something, but his words were muffled by 
the growing weight. A bubble of isolation surrounded her. She felt a distancing 
from everyone and everything. Even the brightness of the torch held by Tol’chuk 
grew muted and dull.
None of the others seemed affected. They continued to talk as if nothing were 
the matter.
Soon the tunnel walls began to gleam with thousands of glowworms. “We be near,” 
Tol’chuk called back.
But Elena already knew this. The pressure had started to level out. Her eyes 
ached, her heart thudded, but she continued on.
“Are you all right?” Er’ril asked. His words sounded far away. Elena nodded. 
“It’s the magick here. The air is heavy with it.”
“You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” And she was. She sensed no malignancy, simply the presence of 
something vastly larger than herself. But a part of her still cowered before the 
enormity of it.
Er’ril squeezed her fingers, but even this gesture was dulled. Nothing could 
hold off the magick here… not even love.
Tol’chuk marched on, and at last the tunnel opened into a great chamber. The 
others followed him into the room. Er’ril and Elena were the last to enter.
All eyes were already fixed on the far wall. An arch of fiery brilliance climbed 
to impossible heights within the echoing chamber.
“The Spirit Gate,” Tol’chuk said needlessly.
“With that much heartstone,” Harlequin Quail muttered, “we could simply buy off 
the Dark Lord.”
Elena stared in awe. According to Tol’chuk, what they beheld was only part of 
the whole. The arch here was but half of a solid ring of heartstone.
Magnam stepped beside Harlequin. “If the Dark Lord ever got hold of this much 
heartstone, I fear the depths of the evil he might perform. Can you imagine an 
arch of this size transformed into ebon’stone? It would make the four Weirgates 
seem like a whore’s glass baubles.”
The d’warf’s words roused worried expressions on everyone’s features, especially 
Tol’chuk’s.
The og’re faced the Spirit Gate. One clawed hand covered his thigh pouch, as if 
he were trying to hide it from the arch of heartstone. “Perhaps we should think 
longer on this choice.”
“No.” Elena moved to Tol’chuk’s side. “I can sense the magick here— that bit of 
ebon’stone cannot threaten its might. It would take something the size of a 
Weirgate to challenge it.”
She recognized the doubtful glint in Tol’chuk’s eyes. She touched his arm, 
willing him to trust her.
Slowly he nodded. With a worried frown, he stepped toward one leg of the arch, 
fingering the ties to the pouch and tugging it open. With his head half turned, 
Tol’chuk was the last to see what he unleashed.
Inky jets of darkness plumed from the opened pouch, shooting high over 
Tol’chuk’s shoulder.
Elena gasped. Er’ril gripped her shoulder, pulling her back.
“Mother above!” Magnam exclaimed.
Seeing their reactions, Tol’chuk spun around. He stared up at the black cloud 
hovering under the arch. “It be the Triad!” he cried out. “I thought them gone 
when the stone turned black.”
Apparently this was not so.
As Elena watched, jagged forks of silvery brightness crackled through the 
roiling darkness, like lightning in a storm cloud. But this was no ordinary 
storm cloud. Rather it appeared more a mist of ebon’stone. And laughter, as 
black as the mists from which it issued, flowed out the churning darkness.
“Get back!” Er’ril shouted to Tol’chuk. He waved for the others to retreat to 
the tunnel.
Tol’chuk crouched under the cloud. “But the Triad…”
“They’ve been twisted like the Heart!” Nee’lahn called to him as Meric drew her 
back with the others.“Like my sisters, the Grim wraiths!”
Only Tol’chuk did not move. “But the Gate! I cannot abandon it!”
Words of dark amusement flowed from the cloud. “And we wouldn’t let you.” The 
mists split into three shredded bits of darkness. Two fled to either leg of the 
arch, with the last sailing high to the pinnacle. Separate now, they appeared 
vaguely og’re in shape.
“No!” Tol’chuk cried, straightening. “I won’t let you harm the Gate!”
“It be not we who mean to harm it!” The words seemed to rise from all three 
shadows. Jagged crackles of lightning shot forth from the spirits guarding the 
legs of the arch. The bolts of silver lanced out and snared Tol’chuk by the 
arms.
Tethered between the two, he was torn off his feet and yanked forward. Crying 
out, Tol’chuk fought, but his arms were stretched to the point of dislocation. 
In a heartbeat, he was pinned under the arch, hanging in midair between the two 
legs
Er’ril ran forward, yanking free his sword. The wit’ch sword gleamed like an 
icicle, its elemental steel blade singing out of its sheath.
Elena ripped off her gloves and grabbed the dagger at her waist. With deft 
slices, she cut each palm and called forth her magick. Flames ignited over both 
hands: wit’ch fire and coldfire.
She sensed Meric and Nee’lahn flanking her. The others returned with them. None 
of them would abandon Tol’chuk to the wraiths.
From the peak of the arch, the third shadow cast more bolts of silver, warding 
them back. The jagged spears struck with the might of true steel. Er’ril dodged 
a bolt, rolling to the side. Bits of rock blasted from the stone floor where he 
had been standing. Other spears aimed for their group.
They scattered. The hammer blows echoed throughout the cavern. “Back to the 
tunnel!” Er’ril shouted from behind an outcropping of stone. Til go for 
Tol’chuk!“
Elena picked herself up from the floor. “Do as he says.” Meric met her eyes, 
defiant, angry. Similar expressions flashed among the others. Even Magnam, with 
no magick of his own, shook his head. The d’warf had taken a blow to the 
shoulder. Blood flowed down his arm and still, he didn’t budge.
“Help Tol’chuk!” Nee’lahn urged. “We’ll offer what aid we can!” The next barrage 
of lightning lashed out. Elena cast a shield of coldfire before her, blocking 
the energy. Still the bolt was strong enough to knock her back. She tried to 
take another step, but more strikes bombarded her, one after the other, pounding 
her back.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Fardale and Thorn drop to all fours, 
shifting into two wolves, one dark, one snowy. They raced across the floor in a 
zigzagging pattern, passing in front of her while bolts chased after them.
With the momentary distraction, Elena fought her way forward. She spotted Er’ril 
behind the outcropping, pinned down in the center of the room. Blasts struck his 
shelter, shattering chunks of rock, eroding his hiding space away.
On the far side of the chamber, Meric moved with the unnatural speed of his 
people, impossible to catch, while Nee’lahn crouched behind a boulder with 
Magnam, binding his wound. There was no sign of Harlequin Quail. The master spy 
had fled.
Elena turned her attention forward. It was a stalemate; neither group was strong 
enough to break the other. Elena feared using her full power against the wraiths 
that hovered in front of the heartstone arch. Even if her magicks could harm 
pure spirit, the backlash might harm the Spirit
Gate. If the ring of heartstone were shattered, so would be all hope of learning 
whatever Sisa’kofa knew. It was too important to risk a direct attack.
Around her, the chamber echoed with lightning blasts, making it difficult to 
think. Elena kept up her shield as she slowly worked forward, trying to reach 
Er’ril.
But what then? How did you defeat an enemy that had no substance?
Off to the side, Thorn was suddenly tossed in the air as she caught the edge of 
a blast. She struck the stone and rolled back to flee on three legs, leaving 
bloody footprints behind, her snowy flank singed black. Fardale raced around 
her, keeping the bolts away.
The stalemate was beginning to fray—and not in their favor.
Elena moved ahead as an explosive strike rocked the cavern, blinding her for a 
heartbeat. All three spirits had struck the outcropping behind which Er’ril hid. 
Rock dust plumed up. As it wafted away, Elena spotted Er’ril sprawled under a 
tumble of rock, not moving.
She raced forward. Her anger and fear melded her magick into a shield around 
her. “Er’ril!”
His legs were pinned under rock. Blood seeped from a scalp wound and from one 
ear, but a groan answered her. He still lived! One hand scrabbled blindly on the 
stone. She saw his hand was attempting to reach the rose sword, still trying to 
fight.
His effort fired her. She snatched up Shadowsedge.
“No…” he mumbled weakly.
But as her bloody palm gripped the hilt, a jolt tore through her body. She was 
on her feet before she knew it. Magick fed into the blade and ignited its length 
into pure flame.
Lightning struck toward her from three directions. But unbidden, her sword 
parried each bolt, driving it aside or absorbing its energy into her own magick. 
She was not knocked back this time. She danced across the cavern floor, feinting 
and parrying the multiple attacks, one against three.
Around the chamber, the attacks on the others faded. The wraiths needed all 
their attention to hold her back.
And still Elena danced. Her feet moved with a skill not her own, her arm 
flashing with magick uncalled. A corner of her mind recognized this control: She 
had once fought her aunt Mycelle with a blade whetted in her own magickal blood. 
She remembered the surety of steel melded to her flesh. But that experience 
paled when compared to what she felt now.
Shadowsedge had been forged of elemental steel, fused with the blood of 
Sisa’kofa, her ancestor. Elena had not only joined steel to herself, but to the 
skill of an ancient wit’ch.
Lightning danced around her in a blinding display. Blocked by her blows, bolts 
struck walls and ceiling. Rock tumbled from above. The others retreated to the 
walls. Even they knew the fight was now between her and the three wraiths. A 
smile grew on her lips.
Closer at hand, words reached her from behind. “Elena…” It was Er’ril, groggy. 
“The sword… a blood weapon.” His voice grew stronger. “It is only steel. You 
must control it.”
She dismissed his warnings. She was in perfect control. With a flick of her 
wrist, she parried a bolt back toward the wielder. The lethal force struck the 
granite wall under the arch, exploding the stone. Was that not proof of her 
control?
Her smile stretched, exposing her teeth. Magick sang in her blood, steel in her 
ears. She backhanded another bolt, driving it to strike the wall again. With 
each breath, her skill grew.
A cry of pain sounded from ahead, a pebble in a raging sea. “Elena!” It was 
Er’ril again. “Look at what you do!” he yelled at her. Elena shook off his 
words. She knew what she was doing. “Look with your heart! Do not forget the 
woman inside you!” As his words sank into her heart, she remembered a moment 
from long ago, but not far from here. She had stood atop a mountain pass in 
virgin snow. She had joined a ruby hand to a pale one, joining wit’ch to woman. 
She had accepted her power at that moment, recognized the weight of her 
responsibility. But she had also recognized that which she refused to lose: her 
heart, her humanity, her ability to love. Er nl…
“Trust your heart… not cold steel…”
A veil slowly lifted from her eyes. Lightning struck at her feet, jolting her 
back, stumbling her away. She cried out as the world came back into focus. The 
perfect blend of magick and steel shattered around her.
Across the chamber, Tol’chuk still hung between the two legs of the arch. But to 
either side of him, the smooth wall was deeply pitted where her parried bolts 
had struck. She had come within an arm’s length of killing the og’re, her 
friend.
More lightning chased her. She fought it with the blade, but now she did not 
release herself fully to the sword. She sought a balance somewhere in 
between—and her skill ebbed. Blows again jolted her, threaten-ing to tear the 
sword from her grip. The surety of victory faded. Elena sensed that only by 
releasing herself fully to the sword would she have the skill to bring the fight 
forward to the Gate, but if she did that, she risked losing herself and those 
around her. Steel did not care about love, only victory.
Movement by the Gate drew her attention. A small hand waved at her. It came from 
near a pile of rubble at the base of the wall, under Tol’chuk’s feet. A figure 
rose from hiding—Harlequin Quail!
The spy held a dagger in his teeth and motioned with his hands. Elena frowned, 
then understanding dawned. Her eyes grew wide.
Of course…
She risked a glance behind her. “I need everyone who can still move to be ready 
on my word!” Elena turned back and parried another bolt toward the ceiling.
Sounds of affirmation echoed out to her.
She locked gazes with Harlequin Quail. She prayed his plan was sound. “Now! Rush 
the Gate!”
Elena burst through a flurry of lightning strikes. To either side, the others 
raced forward: Meric with his unnatural speed, Fardale, Magnam, even Thorn raced 
on her three good legs.
Lightning shattered out in all directions at this last drive toward the Spirit 
Gate, but their efforts were a feint.
Under Tol’chuk, the short man dressed in motley and bells leaped with an 
unnatural silence. Moving with a grace that defied bone and muscle, he grabbed 
Tol’chuk’s ankle with one hand, pulled himself up, and used his dagger to slice 
the pouch hanging from the og’re’s thigh.
Harlequin then dropped and landed in a crouch, both hands held out. The 
ebon’stone Heart tumbled out the bottom of the pouch and into his waiting palms.
With his prize in hand, he raced from under Tol’chuk and aimed toward one of the 
pillared legs of heartstone. Only then did one of the wraiths notice the man 
under their misty noses. A bolt of lightning lashed out at him.
Harlequin dove forward with a jangle of bells, somersaulted twice, and was at 
the arch. Without pause he flew up the granite wall like a spider. Another bolt 
struck at him, but he was already leaping toward the arch. With the Heart held 
out before him, he slammed its dark shape into the gap where it fit with 
perfection.
A scream erupted from the trio of wraiths.
°
Harlequin leaped aside.
Brightness flared along the arch, exploding with such brilliance that all were 
driven back. The wraiths were burned from their perches, blasted into wailing 
fragments.
Tol’chuk, no longer restrained, dropped to the stone floor. He landed in a half 
crouch, swinging to face the Gate
Elena retreated to Er’ril’s side. He reached to her, blood dripping down his 
face. She dropped the sword and took his hand. The pressure she had felt in the 
tunnels grew to an enormity that threatened to drown her. Wincing, she leaned 
near him. “Are you all right?” He grimaced. “I’ve felt better.”
Worried, Elena turned to the arch. The wall, framed in glowing heart-stone, 
began to shimmer. Granite dissolved into illusion. The Gate was opening. The 
flow of ruby light trailed down under the stone floor and around again, marking 
the buried ring of heartstone.
When the brilliance reached the chunk of blackened stone at its heart, the ruby 
glow swelled over the darkness and overwhelmed it, wiping it away. With this 
release, the entire ring blossomed with a light that pierced flesh and bone.
For a moment, Elena felt a linking similar to that with the blood sword, a 
melding of her spirit to the energy here. But instead of being limited to the 
length of a steel blade, her essence sailed forth in all directions. The 
boundaries were vast, farther than her mind could fathom. In that instant, she 
knew to what she was blood-bonded. The world… all the lands, all the peoples . . 
.
For the barest moment, she sensed all life. In the past, she had experienced 
hints of this interconnectivity, a vast web of all living things—but never more 
than at this moment. The beauty and symmetry grew into a harmony that was both 
complex and simple. It was a chorus without music, a perfect crystalline matrix 
of silver life force. Her magick sang with her ecstasy.
Then, like a snuffed candle, it was taken from her. The cavern snapped back into 
focus. The pressure popped away into oblivion, gone. A sob escaped her clenched 
throat.
“Elena… ?” Fingers squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, not ready for words.
Against the far wall, the ring of heartstone had opened. Beyond the threshold 
lay a well of darkness streaked with fissures of forking and crisscrossing veins 
of crimson fire. Bursts of brilliance raced along and disappeared, almost too 
quickly for the eye to follow, like shooting stars across a night sky. But this 
display was but a backdrop for the true marvel at the heart of the well.
In the center, slowly spinning, was a crystal the color of a clear morning sky. 
The stone seemed to swell toward the Gate, growing to fill the ring of 
heartstone.
The Spirit Stone…
The glow bathed the group huddled before its immensity. Elena again felt the 
connection to all living things. She sensed the beauty of her own lifeforce, of 
all those in the room, a shine of silvery energy. In Meric and Nee’lahn, she 
also recognized the flame of their elemental fire, a tiny spark of brighter 
magick.
In that moment, Elena realized a startling thing. They were the same: the 
lifeforce in all things and the silver energy of an elemental’s fire. She gaped 
at the stone. The same was true before her. The crystal was an amalgam of 
lifeforce and elemental silver. It was both! And with this realization came 
another. She had seen such a crystal once before.
She was not the only to make this connection. “De’nal,” Er’ril whispered in awe 
and sorrow.
Elena knew he was right. The boy had been sculpted of the same crystal as here: 
lifeforce and elemental silver, fused into a brilliant crystalline form. There 
was something important about this connection. Elena could almost grasp it.
Then from the heart of the stone, a droplet of darkness appeared. It rose toward 
them, tangled in a cloud of silver strands. Tol’chuk backed toward Er’ril and 
Elena. “The Wit’ch of the Spirit Stone.”
Readying herself, Elena gave Er’ril’s hand a final squeeze. Then she stood and 
stepped forward.
From the Gate, a dark figure of carved ebony rose like a swimmer from the depths 
of a silver sea. The silver strands wafted apart, moving to currents unseen. The 
figure floated free, stepping out of the Gate and hovering at its threshold.
It was a woman, cloaked only in a cloud of silvery strands. Elena saw that these 
filaments were the figure’s own tresses, floating in wisps around her face, 
sweeping over her shoulders and about her form, flowing all the way back to the 
heart of the Spirit Stone.
In turn, the energy of the crystal swept out in bright flares of magick along 
these strands and sparked over her dark skin, defining her shape, as if 
continually sculpting her out of the darkness of the Gate’s well.
But Elena barely noted any of this. Her eyes were fixed on the woman’s face, 
smiling down upon her. It was her own face! Maybe a bit older. Only the eyes 
were truly someone else’s, ripe with ancient knowledge and magick.
“Sisa’kofa,” she greeted her.
The woman nodded. “Elena… at long last.” Her voice seemed slightly out of time 
with the movement of her lips.
Elena was too stunned to speak, but the figure smiled so warmly that her frozen 
tongue melted. “I… I have so many questions.”
“So do we all in life,” Sisa’kofa answered, “but I’m afraid I can only offer the 
guidance left to me by my predecessor. I am only the shadow of the one you name 
Sisa’kofa, bound to the stone to pass on one last message. What I’ve learned 
during my guardianship here, I’ve already told the seed of Ly’chuk.”
Elena nodded. Tol’chuk had already related the history of the Dark Lord, of his 
ancestor’s betrayal that had started in this very room and earned him the name 
Oathbreaker. “What else must I know?” she asked. “What message do you bear?”
“I’ve come to tell you that you fight the wrong enemy,” the shadow of the witch 
said. “You have all along.”
“But the Dark Lord seeks to blacken the very heart of the Land. You’ve said as 
much yourself,” she blurted out.
Sisa’kofa nodded. “It is so.”
“Then how is the Dark Lord not our enemy?”
The sea of glowing strands stirred. “You do not listen. He may be an enemy, but 
he is the wrong enemy. Let the others you’ve gathered to your side face Ly’chuk 
and his darkness. You must ready yourself for the true danger to the world.”
“And what is that?”
The figure wafted through the air, stretching from the Gate to hover before her. 
One dark hand rose and brushed her cheek, a sensation that was both ice and fire 
on her skin. “Not what, but who” she whispered.
“Who?” Elena echoed.
The wit’ch leaned near to her ear. There was no breath, but the answer still 
reached her. “You.”
Elena stumbled back in shock. “Me?”
The spirit drifted forward, following. “There is a dark tide coming, foreseen 
for ages past, by seers from many lands. All the threads of prophecy wrap around 
a single spirit—not Ly’chuk, but you, Elena Morin’stal, descendant of wit’ches 
and elv’in blood. You will hold the threads to the world’s fate.”
“What must I do?”
“You will face a choice, a cusp of prophecy. Your choosing will either damn or 
save all. That is where the true danger lies.”
“How?” Elena straightened, a flame of anger burning through her shock. “Even at 
the cost of my own life, I will certainly choose to save the world.”
The wit’ch smiled darkly. “There is the heart of the danger of which I speak, 
the reason I’ve locked a part of my spirit in stone all these ages. I have come 
to tell you that your choice—either way—will doom all.”
Elena stared at her tormentor, then spoke weakly. “Then what must I do?”
Sisa’kofa shook her head, stirring up the silvery nest around her figure. “I 
can’t answer that. All the fates whirl into the dark tide that is to come. None 
can see what lies beyond.”
“But…”
The dark figure leaned close. “Look to your heart. Look to the friends you love. 
Find your own path out of the darkness—a path that none but you will see.”
“How?”
The wit’ch reached forward again with an ebony-sculpted hand and touched a 
finger to her chest, a touch of ice and fire. “The answer is here already. You 
must find it… or you will certainly doom the world.”
Er’ril lay in a stupor of pain. Every movement ground the crushed bones of his 
trapped legs in fiery agony. Still, when he saw Elena stumble away from the 
wit’ch with despair etched into every feature, he tried to drag himself from the 
tumble of rocks.
Elena crumpled to her knees on the stone floor, as if crushed under the weight 
of the spirit’s words.
“Elena!” he cried—but she seemed deaf to him. He reached toward her, but she was 
too far away.
What did the wit’ch say to her?
While they had conversed, he could see their lips moving, but no words reached 
him or the others. Some magick muffled their speech.
Then the silence shattered away. The wit’ch spoke to Elena, but now all could 
hear. “What I have told you, you must keep to your heart alone. None here have 
heard our words.”
Elena stared up, her face a mask of fear. “How can I keep silent about this?”
Sisa’kofa knelt, reaching a hand to Elena’s tears as they started to flow. 
“Because you must. You know this in your own heart. You will weaken their 
resolve when they most need to be strong. This message is for you alone. It is a 
challenge you must face.”
“But how am I… ?” Elena glanced to the others. Her gaze settled on Er’ril. “How… 
?” she whispered, tears flowing.
The wit’ch followed Elena’s gaze. Er’ril found himself staring into dark, 
ageless eyes. They seemed to ask something of him—but what?
As he tried to decipher the meaning, Sisa’kofa spoke to Elena. “The hows of the 
world, I don’t know. Only the certainty of the outcome.”
Elena covered her face, weeping. Sisa’kofa continued to stare at Er’ril, 
silently willing something from him.
Er’ril, trapped and broken under rock, did the only thing he could. “Elena,” he 
said softly.
She heard him this time and lowered her hands.
“I love you,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Whatever grief you bear, I will always 
be at your side.”
“Er’ril,” she sobbed, her heart breaking before him. “You don’t know—”
“I do know” he cut her off. “I love you… and nothing else matters.”
“But—”
“I love you, and you love me. Is this not true?”
She nodded, sobbing. Er’ril had never wanted to take her in his arms more than 
at this moment. But he could not. He could only reach her with his words, 
comfort her with his heart.
“I will always love you,” he said. “Bound on my word, I am your liegeman. Bound 
with elv’in blood, I am your husband. But it is my heart and spirit that bind me 
truly to you. You are my life, and nothing will ever change this. Not now, not 
ever.”
Elena took a deep, shuddering breath. “Er’ril…” Her voice was still pained, but 
it had retreated from the pit of despair and agony of a moment ago.
The wit’ch rose from beside Elena. “My duty is finished. I must be set free.”
Elena wiped her eyes. “How?”
Sisa’kofa pointed to the sword abandoned on the floor. “Shadows-edge… it is a 
blade made to cut through magick, to break the strongest spells. You must take 
it and sever my connections to the world’s heart.”
Elena stared at the sword as if it were a poisonous snake. “Do this, and I will 
grant you a final boon.”
Elena glanced questioningly to the wit’ch, but no answer was given. The wit’ch 
simply motioned to the sword.
Elena took up the sword and shoved to her feet. She crossed behind the figure, 
to where the flow of silver strands streamed back toward the world’s heart. 
Elena raised the sword.
Er’ril heard a whisper from the wit’ch. “At long last…” she murmured, closing 
her eyes.
Elena brought down the sword. As it cleaved through the silvery tangle, a bright 
light burst throughout the room, blinding them all for a scintillating 
heartbeat. Then the world returned.
Elena stood a few paces away, still holding the sword in both her hands. The 
wit’ch was gone. Beyond her, the Gate remained open. The Spirit Stone still 
shone in the heart of the world, but now it retreated back, growing smaller 
until it winked away, taking its dark well. Ordinary granite filled the space. 
Tol’chuk cried out.
It was only then that Er’ril realized that the arch of heartstone was gone! The 
entire Spirit Gate had vanished!
Elena stared up at the empty wall, exhausted. “Like the Spirit Root of the 
Western Reaches,” she mumbled. “The Land is pulling back. Only the shadow of the 
wit’ch was holding this gateway open. With Sisa’kofa gone, the Land readies 
itself for the final battle.”
“But the Gate,” Tol’chuk said. “It is the heart of our clans.”
“No,” Elena answered. “As long as the Land thrives, your clans will always have 
a heart. It exists for all lands, for all peoples. None can claim it as their 
sole property.”
She turned around. Her eyes fell upon Er’ril with a confused frown. He could not 
fathom her expression until Meric stepped to his shoulder. “I think you can get 
up off the floor,” the elv’in prince said.
Er’ril looked behind him. The pile of rock had disappeared. He rolled to his 
feet, inspecting his limbs. There was no pain, no broken bones. Not even his 
clothes were torn. He glanced to the others. No one else was injured.
“All our wounds are healed!” he said, stunned.
“The final boon,” Elena said with a spark of bright relief. She crossed to his 
side and dropped her sword. She clasped him to her. “Er’ril!”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Hush.” She shuddered against him.
“I love you,” he whispered, but as he stared at the blank wall, a part ot him 
prayed it would be enough. A fear grew in him. What did the wit’ch tell her?
Cassa Dar lay stretched on her bed in the uppermost tower chamber of Castle 
Drakk. Her eyes stared up at the raftered ceiling, but her sight was far from 
the swamps of her home.
Instead, she sailed over the wooded highland countryside, looking through the 
eyes of her swamp child. The connection was tenuous—the distances were vast, and 
her powers weakened as the flow of elemental energies continued their slow ebb. 
It was only the strength of the poison in the winged child that kept her link 
intact. The infant king adder at the heart of her magickal construction of moss 
and weed remained strong, rich in venoms.
Still, it was hard to breach the distances. It taxed her. Her castle children 
dragged up plates of dried fruits and boiled fish, but she could only pick at 
their offerings. She had remained bedridden, too exhausted to move from the 
room.
But she knew the importance of her mission.
Just after midday, she had taken wing along with six si’luran scouts. The 
shape-shifters had been assigned to scout the trails that their forces would 
take tomorrow. The plan was to head out just after sunrise and reach the 
highlands below the Fang by nightfall. From there, they would set upon Winter’s 
Eyrie by the following dawn.
For that to happen, their armies would need to move swiftly, with a clear path 
and a clearer goal. They must fall upon their enemy like a torrent of snowmelt 
from the heights.
But where was the enemy? What did they face?
That was her mission.
Haifa world from her castle home, Cassa Dar sailed over treetops. The sun was 
near to setting. She banked on a warm uprising, circling higher. She was almost 
to her goal and dared not be spotted.
Below, the world was a sea of green. Highland forests stretched to the horizons 
north and south, fringing the peaks of the Teeth. But to the east, a great swath 
of devastation marred the beauty, as if the green sea washed up against a 
stripped and blackened island.
Smoke rose in columns from the green forest, marking the ruins of hamlets and 
farms. She had swept over one such site a short time ago: a homestead, recently 
razed. Embers still glowed through the pall of smoke, revealing a charnel house 
of horrors. Livestock had been brutally slaughtered, the remains strewn 
everywhere. From the air, she had spotted a cow sprawled in offal and blood, 
torn in half. Nor had the owners of the farm escaped the slaughter. Eight heads 
were piked among the ruins, women and children, an entire family, even their pet 
dog.
Since then, she had avoided those sites, focusing on the blackened forest ahead. 
From that island of death amid the green sea, a plume of black smoke sailed high 
into the air. It was not the smolder of the other smaller pyres—whatever cast 
out such smoke continued to burn fierce and deep. She knew she had no choice but 
to scout out what lay ahead.
Satisfied with her height, she sailed toward the black sigil in the summer sky. 
From the ground, she would appear no more than a speck, impossible to spot. A 
part of her quailed at approaching any nearer, but she flew onward, cresting 
higher, banking in a wide curve toward the island of dead trees.
Once she was within half a league, she could make out a wide valley stretched 
between the upper highlands and the lower foothills. From the organized rows of 
trees below, it must have once been a mighty orchard, sectioned into family 
farms and centered on a modestly sized township.
“Sweet Mother…” Cassa Dar whispered in her chamber room. Though she had never 
been here, she knew this valley. Elena had described it in detail, from the 
small mill by the stream to the wide pond by the town’s edge. It was the girl’s 
own home, Winterfell.
Cassa remained at the edges of the valley.
Like the homestead she had passed earlier, the town was a burned-out husk. Brick 
buildings had been scorched. Some walls still stood; others had been razed to 
the ground. Cassa Dar banked away, aiming for the well of dark smoke at the 
north end of the valley.
Below, the orchard had fared no better than the town. Not only had all the trees 
been denuded of leaves, but even their branches were missing. All that remained 
were dead trunks, stripped and bare—a valley of
James Llemens wooden spikes awaiting bodies to be spitted. It was a 
disheartening sight; she could only imagine what such a discovery would do to 
Elena. This had been her home.
“Poor child…”
She swung her gaze from the devastation below to the column of smoke at the 
north end of the valley, the region named Winter’s Eyrie. The destruction of the 
lower valley rose up toward it, a path of sorrow and pain.
She dared not get too close. Though the township and orchards seemed empty of 
any living thing, whatever flagged the fire below would surely be wary of prying 
eyes. Still, she had been sent to search for the last Weir-gate. While this was 
surely suspicious, she could not return with just her grave misgivings. She 
needed proof upon which to target their armies.
So Cassa Dar urged her swamp child to higher elevations. She would have to get 
as close as possible without being spotted.
Ahead, the plume of smoke grew, filling the world with its foulness. On the 
journey from the mountains, the entire highlands had reeked of soot and 
woodsmoke, but here the winds were foul, smelling of burned flesh, scorched 
blood, and the tang of something twisted and unnatural.
As Cassa Dar climbed higher over the valley, she spotted the source of the 
smoke. A great pit lay blasted into the land. She swung closer. The hole, 
circular in shape, had to be two leagues across. From what she could see of the 
edges of the monstrous pit, the hole seemed to descend in giant stairsteps, huge 
tiers gouged from the land, dropping one after another into the ground.
Whatever the purpose of the pit, its construction was still under way. From the 
smoke, fires would suddenly flare, shooting high into the sky. Echoes of 
pounding and muffled explosions rose from within the column of smoke, sounding 
impossibly far away.
How deep is this pit?
Cassa Dar edged around the periphery of the dark construction. The outer circles 
of the pit were as empty as the orchard valley, but screams rose on the winds, 
amid howls and the clanging of steel. She sensed movement deep below: a churning 
of the smoke, darker shapes lumbering through the pall, limned in the flashes of 
fire.
The hole was clearly not empty.
She braved a closer pass, determined it would be her last. She would report what 
she discovered here and leave the decisions to the war council.
As she swept nearer, searching the heart of the smoky pit, she sensed a presence 
swell before her. Towering ahead, the column of darkness took
Wit ch star on a new form: It sprouted black wings, and a neck stretched forth 
out of the darkness. Fiery eyes opened above a smoky beak. A dark malignancy 
searched out.
Cassa Dar knew better than to tarry. She dove away, sensing that to be spotted 
by that presence would be certain doom. She fell back into the desolate orchard 
valley, dropping among the bare trunks, skirting and winging with the momentum 
of her dive. Trunks flashed past.
She dodged right and left, then rolled into the cover of a streambed. She flew 
just above the sludgy, muddy waters, keeping the banks of the stream between her 
and the smoky searcher. At any moment, she expected a monstrous black claw to 
snatch her away. Even hundreds of leagues away, she knew she was not safe from 
the evil. If caught, both child and creator would be destroyed.
Fueled by fear and aided by the innate skill of her creation, she winged down 
the stream, sweeping at impossible speeds, a prayer on her lips.
Then the stream emptied into a millpond, and the banks fell away. Exposed, Cassa 
Dar rolled and searched behind her. She was surprised at how far she had 
traveled. The smoky shape was only a smudge on the horizon.
Watching from a distance, she saw the spread of black wings fold back into the 
cloud. The beaked visage dissolved into smoke. The last to vanish were the fiery 
eyes. They searched a moment longer—then they were gone.
Cassa Dar shook with relief. She had come near to awakening the beast at the 
heart of the monstrous black pit.
Thankful to escape its attention, she urged the swamp child out of the valley 
and away. The sun was disappearing into the mountains to the west. She chased 
after it, ready to return to her friends, to Jaston.
She glanced once more behind her. The black smudge stood out against the 
darkening sky. She had found what she had come seeking. There was no doubt what 
beast had risen from the smoke: the black wings, the sharp beak, the fiery eyes. 
It had been the shadow of the Wyvern, the last Weir-gate. It must surely lie at 
the heart of the pit.
With a heavy heart, Cassa Dar fled the devastation. In two days’ time, she would 
return—she and all the others. They had no choice.
A shudder of dread passed through the swamp child, and far away in her castle 
tower, Cassa Dar made a quiet plea. “Mother above, have mercy on us all.”
JAMES LLEMENS
“Have you made your decision, boy?”
Leaning on his staff, Joach frowned down at Greshym. He clenched his gloved 
fingers, resisting the urge to smash that satisfied smirk from the darkmage’s 
face. Greshym had knowledge he needed.
The darkmage sat in a pile of moldy straw in his makeshift cell, a small cave at 
the end of a blind tunnel off the main og’re cavern. His arms had been tied 
behind him and his legs bound. There were two guards, og’res armed with clubs, 
posted at the end of the tunnel—the only exit.
“The sun has set,” Greshym pressed. “What is your decision?”
Joach crouched, his old knees cracking. He supported himself with his stone 
staff. “Let’s be clear—if I free you, you’ll teach me how to imbue true life 
into my creations, and return the winters of my youth that you stole from me.”
“Half the winters. Half,” Greshym corrected. “That was the deal.”
“And once you’re free, you’ll leave here.”
“Do you think I want to stay? To be recaptured?”
Joach narrowed his eyes. Could he trust the darkmage? Surely not, but he could 
not risk losing this one chance. All day long, he had stared at the 
dream-sculpted rose, smelled its petals, fingered its green leaves. As the sun 
set, he had planted the flower in the meadow outside the caves, offering fresh 
loam to its new roots. He had stood guard over it as the sun disappeared. It 
truly lived. For such magick, he would risk anything.
As he crouched, he pictured a girl with twilight eyes and skin as warm as the 
desert sands. Anything—he would risk anything to touch her again, to watch her 
smile under moonlight.
Greshym’s eyes glinted in the torchlight filtering from the tunnel beyond the 
cave. A vague smile marked his lips, but also a trace of sadness.
Joach lowered his voice. “First tell me how you brought life into the flower 
without any magick. Do this and I will slice your bonds.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll get you past the guards. Once away, you’ll return my years, then be gone 
from these mountains.”
Greshym nodded. “I’ll need a horse.”
Joach thought for a moment, then sighed. “Agreed.”
Greshym rolled up onto his knees. “Then let us begin our last dance. To 
understand what I did to the rose, you must first understand about lifeforces, 
the flow of energies that separates the living from the dead.” The darkmage 
stared across at him. “All lifeforce is the same energy, but
Wit ch star it is made unique by each individual’s spirit. A spirit will imbue 
this energy with its pattern. Sculpting it, if you like, into something unique.“
“What does this have to do with the rose?”
“I’m getting to that, my boy. Though you have the face of an old man, you have 
the patience of a brash youngster.”
“Go on,” Joach urged, irritated by the darkmage’s jovial chiding.
Greshym sighed. “As you know, I stole a large font of your lifeforce. It aged 
you, making me younger.”
Anger flared in Joach, but he bit his tongue to keep the mage talking.
“I had to rip it from you, and it is not an easy thing to do… for life energy, 
once patterned, is immutable. It can’t change. The lifeforce that keeps me young 
is still patterned after you.”
“It is still me?” Joach trembled with the horror of this thought.
“And it wants to return to you, like a stream wants to flow down a mountainside. 
You are its most natural vessel, but I keep it dammed inside of me by the force 
of my will, nothing more. For it to flow back to you would only take a touch of 
my hand and the release of my will.”
“It’s that simple?” Joach could not keep the shock out of his voice.
“Indeed.”
“And the rose?”
“You created it with your own sculpting. It is as much a part of you as your arm 
or your leg. To bring it to life, I had only to touch its petals and will the 
energy I hold to flow into it—energy patterned to you, patterned the same as the 
rose. Once the empty cup was full, I stanched the flow and broke contact. But 
the rose now lived.”
Joach sat back, stunned. “So anything I dream sculpt, I can bring to true life 
by pouring my own energy into it, simply willing it to live.”
The darkmage nodded. “Some of the strongest magicks are the simplest.”
Joach closed his eyes. A tremble passed over his limbs. If it were true, he 
could bring Kesla back to life! But could he trust Greshym’s word? He wanted 
proof first himself. He positioned his staff over his knees.
“What are you doing?” Greshym asked.
“Testing your word.” Joach shook back the sleeve of his cloak and exposed the 
stump of his wrist. He had lost the hand to this one’s gnomish dog. He passed 
the stump over the length of his petrified stave, calling forth the magicks 
inside, calling forth the sculpture of the hand stored in his staff. Hand and 
fingers bloomed into existence, unlined by age, as smooth as when he was young. 
And though he could move the fingers, even grab objects with the strength often 
men, it was cold and unfeeling, as if he wore a glove of ice over the new hand. 
Though Joach could grant it the illusion of life, it was still dead.
Joach stared over at Greshym. “To bring something I sculpted to life, all I have 
to do is will it?”
The darkmage nodded, gaping at his creation. Joach noticed Greshym’s eyes flick 
to his own scarred wrist with clear desire—the darkmage had also lost a hand, 
centuries ago. “If I had your gifts…” he mumbled.
“What must I do?” Joach asked.
Greshym studied the hand. “You must let some of your life energy flow into the 
new sculpture. To do this, you must merely wish it so. Patterned after you, the 
energy will fill the void.”
Joach stared at the dream hand. Will it to live? Could it be that simple? He 
closed his eyes and pictured himself whole, hale of flesh and bone. He imagined 
a river flowing through his blood, spreading out from his heart in all 
directions: down his legs, out his arms, trailing to his fingers and toes. He 
waited for something to happen—but nothing did. “It didn’t work!” he blurted.
“Didn’t it?” Greshym asked.
Joach held up his sculpted hand. Only now did he see the corded lines, the 
bluish veins, the paper-thin skin. It had aged. He compared it to his left hand. 
They were the same. “I don’t understand.” He flexed the newly created fingers, 
and the aged joints ached.
“You’ve brought the dream to life—true life. It must match the age of your 
energy. You are old, so it is old.”
Joach ran his new hand over his staff. He felt the rough grain and the sharp 
green crystals imbedded in it. This hand was real! Closing his eyes, his 
thoughts turned to the one hope in his heart.
Kesla…
Greshym must have read his desire. “You’ve done well here. But to bring 
something as complex as an entire person to life will take a significant chunk 
of your own energy—energy that you don’t have to spare.”
Joach opened his eyes. “But you’ll return half of what you stole if I free you.”
The darkmage nodded. “That is the deal.” A vague smile again marked Greshym’s 
lips.
Joach knew that there was something yet unspoken, a trick yet to be played, but 
he would deal with the consequences when they arose. He could not move forward 
from here without the darkmage’s cooperation.
Cradling his staff under one arm, he pulled a dagger from his cloak.
“You had best keep your word, Greshym, or I’ll use this same dagger to slice 
your throat.” He leaned forward and cut the man’s ropes.
Greshym rubbed his wrists and stretched his arms. “What of the guards?”
Joach waved him aside, then pointed his staff at the spot where Greshym had sat. 
He unleashed one of the two spells he had prepared before coming here. It had 
cost him blood and would cost him again much of his stored magick, but the price 
of his own youth was worth it.
Dream magick plumed from the end of his staff. Upon the stone, a figure took 
form, sculpted from the energies and drawn into this world. It was an exact 
replica of the darkmage, bound again in ropes.
Joach took a certain amount of satisfaction from Greshym’s shocked expression. 
“You’ve more talent than I suspected,” Greshym mumbled.
“Remarkable.”
The replica lay limp and blue-faced. There was no life in the creation, and 
there never would be.
“They’ll believe you dead,” Joach said. “You can leave with no searchers on your 
trail.
Greshym frowned. “Not if they see me walking around like this.”
Joach’s eyes narrowed, “They won’t.” He swung his staff at the dark-mage’s 
heart.
Greshym backed a step from the threat, but Joach cast out his second spell. 
Dream magicks swirled. Joach was careful not to let this magick contact the 
mage, lest the Blood Diary’s spell suck it away. Instead he created a shell 
around Greshym and summoned an illusion to mask his form. The darkmage now 
appeared to be an elv’in sailor, with coppery hair and pale skin. The magick 
would not withstand much scrutiny, and any stray hand would pass through the 
shell, revealing the artifice. But it would suffice for now.
Greshym spoke through the illusion. “Well done.”
“Be warned, I can sweep away the magick at any time and call guards if you 
betray your word.”
Greshym nodded, as did his illusory counterpart. “Then let us end this matter.”
Joach thumped to the cave entrance and called down the tunnel. “Guards! Come 
quickly! Something is wrong with the prisoner!”
A shuffle sounded—then one of the og’re guards lumbered down to them.
Joach pointed his staff toward the corner of the cell, where the dream-sculpted 
body lay crumpled. “Dead,” he said in the common tongue, speaking simply for the 
og’re to understand. “The man is dead.”
The og’re leaned into the cell. His nostrils sniffed. “Dead,” he said thickly.
Joach nodded. “Send a runner to the flying ship. Let them know.” A grunt 
answered him. The og’re was only too happy to leave; death unsettled the large 
creatures. With a final wide-eyed stare at the body, the guard knuckled away 
down the passage.
Joach waved for Greshym to follow. The guards had seen him enter with an elv’in 
at his side, but then it had been only the illusion sculpted briefly into 
existence to fool them—an empty shell that was now occupied by the darkmage.
Once out of the passage, the og’re guard bellowed to a smaller clansman in his 
native tongue. With a grumbled assent, the younger og’re took off at a loping 
run toward the cavern’s exit.
Joach hobbled past the pair of guards and led Greshym toward the open fields. 
Starlight shone silver over the highland meadows, while the mountains were dark 
giants leaning over them. Closer at hand, cook fires of the encamped og’re army 
dotted the fields, and in the near woods, the glow from the si’luran forces. 
Though the moon was already risen, both camps still were roused and busy. It was 
easy to slip past unnoticed.
Joach nodded ahead. “I’ll take you as far as the corral. Then I expect to have 
my winters returned to me. If there is any trickery or I’m threatened in any 
manner, the spell will dissolve. You will be exposed.”
“Fair enough,” Greshym whispered.
Joach kept a step behind the darkmage, ready for any final deceit, but Greshym 
just marched toward the crude stockade where a few horses were penned. In a 
separate stanchion stood Ror’shaf, the mountain man’s former steed. The war 
charger tossed his mane and nickered at their approach. Its nostrils flared, and 
it pawed one steel-shod hoof in the mud, clearly not liking what it sensed here.
“I’ll choose a mount other than that black monster,” Greshym said. “It wouldn’t 
do to escape only to break my neck on the first trail.”
Joach stepped to the stockade gate. “First, your final payment for your 
freedom.”
The darkmage sighed. “So be it.” He turned to Joach. “It will just take a 
touch—like the rose, earlier.” Joach held out his new hand. Greshym placed his 
palm atop Joach’s. “Be ready… It may be jolting.”
Joach braced, but the sensation was nothing for which he could have prepared 
himself—nor would he have wanted to. A warm wash of pleasure flooded into his 
palm and up his arm. It welled out in shuddering waves, as if fueled by a 
beating heart. Filling his legs, it swamped up his torso and over his head. 
There was a momentary sense of drowning; then his vision, blurred by the event, 
sharpened again. Greshym pulled his hand away. Joach stared at the darkmage, 
looking through the illusion of the elv’in to the man hiding inside. Greshym had 
aged from a young man to someone in his midwinters. His brown hair had gone to 
balding at the corners and appeared more drab than its coppery hues earlier. But 
still Greshym was far from an old man.
“How do you feel, boy?” Greshym asked sourly. He was slightly unsteady on his 
feet. What had wonderfully filled Joach had clearly drained the darkmage.
Joach lifted his arms, amazed at the strength he found there. He straightened 
the aged crook from his back and lifted one hand to feel his face. It was 
smooth, the skin clinging instead of sagging. A laugh tumbled from his lips, 
bold again, not raspy. He took a deep breath, appreciating the swell of his 
chest. “I’m young again.”
“Younger,” Greshym said. “You look a man of thirty winters.”
Joach didn’t care. Compared to a moment before, he felt as young as a newborn 
babe. Laughter again rose unbidden.
“Am I free to go now?” Greshym asked.
Joach thought of betraying the man and dragging him back to his cell; but 
Greshym had kept his word, and so would he. “Go, begone from here.
None will look for you.“
Greshym unhitched the corral gate and fetched one of the horses, a roan gelding. 
It was unsaddled, but the darkmage grabbed a bridle and reins from a hook and 
deftly fitted the bit. “What of your new form ? Won’t the others be suspicious?”
“It’s why I created the dead golem of your form to leave behind. Not only will 
it keep anyone from looking for you, it supplies a reason for my returned age.”
Greshym used a rung of the stockade to hoist himself bareback atop his mount. He 
walked the horse out of the corral.
“I see. You’ll claim some of your stolen life automatically returned to you with 
my death. How convenient.”
Joach shrugged. “Do not come back.”
“Fear not in that. I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is.”

Greshym glanced back over at Joach. “Oh, one other thing—Enjoy your youth while 
you can.”
“What do you mean?” Joach felt a trickle of dread cut through his joy.
“If you wish to bring Kesla back, it’ll take everything I just gave you.”
Joach clenched a fist. “What—?”
Greshym held up his one hand. “I am a man of my word. I’ve given all I said I 
would. You’ll be able to bring her back; then you’ll return to the age you were 
a moment ago—an old, bent-backed graybeard. But Kesla will live.”
Joach relaxed his hand. As much as it galled him, he knew the darkmage was 
right. As long as he could bring Kesla back from her sandy grave, what did it 
matter? To give up these years in trade for her life was a small price.
Greshym sighed. “I truly hate to see you so miserable. For your help, I’ll grant 
you a final bit of knowledge for free. There is a way you can have both: Kesla 
and your youth.”
“How?” Joach stepped closer.
“Think, boy. Why did I pursue your sister so ardently?”
Joach frowned.
“The book! The Blood Diary! It grants Elena immortality, a font of lifeforces 
without end. You must merely destroy the book and absorb those energies 
yourself. You’ll have more than enough to both grant Kesla her life and maintain 
your youthful vigor.” Greshym turned and legged his horse on. “You’ve grown, my 
boy! Don’t stop when you’re halfway to everything you dream!”
Joach watched him ride off. He didn’t know whether to thank him or curse him. 
Instead, he simply turned and walked back to camp. He had much to ponder, but as 
he did so, he appreciated the length of his stride, the sureness of his step, 
and the strength of his joints.
He had indeed much to ponder.
From the edge of a copse, Mogweed watched Elena’s brother stride away from the 
horse corral. What had he just witnessed? He kept crouched until the elv’in on 
the horse had vanished into the rimwood forest to the west. Then he rose and 
stared back toward the og’re caves.
What magick was this? The elv’in had touched Joach, and the man had grown 
younger before his eyes, his back straightening, the winters falling from his 
features like leaves from a tree. Even his hair had darkened from a silver-gray 
to a rich auburn, a match to his sister.
Mogweed frowned. Perhaps it was some illusion. Elena’s brother was skilled in 
dream magicks, though he never suspected the man of such skill. Even Joach’s 
stride as he left the corral was sure and firm. Could mere illusion quicken an 
ancient’s step?
He shook his head; it was no concern of his. He had come here with the rising 
moon, but he had not yet built up the steel in his veins to do what had to be 
done. He dared wait no longer. Mogweed slipped back into the darker shadows 
under the trees.
In the center of the glade, his pack still lay where he had left it. The 
ebon’stone bowl rested atop a small rock. He trembled in the chill of the thin 
night air. He had failed to destroy the Spirit Gate, but so had the demonic 
spirits of the Triad.
Mogweed closed his eyes. After the battle, exhausted, he had fallen into that 
restless slumber inside Fardale’s skull, only to awaken with the setting sun. He 
found himself lying with Thorn, his arms around her naked form. She had been 
asleep as he slipped away. It seemed she and his brother had not only made peace 
with their shared pasts, but they had also renewed their former passion. He had 
crept from the furs with distaste. He remembered the depths of their union, mind 
to mind, in the tunnels; he was glad he had slept as their bodies mirrored the 
same union.
With his arms wrapped tight around his chest, Mogweed stared down at the 
ebon’stone bowl. If he ever hoped to be free of Fardale, he would have to brave 
the darkness cupped in the bowl of black stone. He knelt. From a pocket, he 
removed a soiled bandage. Nee’lahn had used it to bind a cut on her forearm, a 
wound from the Spirit Gate battle. With the miraculous healing afterward, she 
had had no further need for it. Mogweed had watched through Fardale’s eyes as 
she disposed of it. Upon awakening, he had fetched it from the refuse. Her 
elemental blood should awaken the bowl’s magick.
Still, he hesitated. He closed his eyes. He had no prickling sense of someone 
staring at the back of his neck. Good. Fardale still slept, clearly sated after 
his rutting with his wolf-mate.
Dream while you still can, Brother. Now it’s my turn for a tryst in the darf{. 
He dropped the bandage into the bowl, then sat back on his heels. As he waited, 
he felt the chill of the night creep through his cloak. He shivered. Then slowly 
the air grew frigid as an icy tomb. A stench of rotting entrails and festering 
wounds filled the space, and a dark mist rose up with the howls of the damned.
Mogweed scuffled a step away as his bowels clenched and bile rose in his throat.
A voice as dark as the stone bowl and as cold as the blackest pit rose from the 
mists. “You call again, little mouse, you who have failed us.”
“I… I…” Mogweed fought his frozen tongue. “There was nothing I could do.”
Tendrils of dark mist sailed out from the bowl. Mogweed scrabbled away, but the 
arms of mist sailed out and around him, circling him. He cowered in the center, 
knowing that even a glancing touch of that black fog would suck the life from 
his bones.
“I will teach you the price of failure.”
Mogweed crouched tighter. Things stirred in the mists, creatures darker than the 
blackest fogs. He squeezed his eyes closed—the sight of these lurkers would 
surely drive him mad. Yet he could not escape their gibbering cries. The sounds 
ate at the wall of sanity around his mind.
“Stop,” he shouted. “I have information to pay for my failings!”
The hoary voice cut through the beasts in the mists. “Speak now, or lose all!”
Mogweed opened one eye. The mists held back, but he was still co-cooned in the 
dread fog, held at its hollow heart. “I… know when the wit’ch will attack… I 
know their forces… their numbers…”
Iced laughter met his offer of betrayal. “Little mouse, don’t you think we know 
all that happens in those mountains? We wait for her even now—a trap from which 
none will escape.” Laughter again, and the gibbering rose as the mists stirred 
anew.
Mogweed knew he was a breath away from being blown out like a candle. “Ly’chuk!” 
he called out in desperation, using the Dark Lord’s real name.
The thread of amusement that had been fading into the ebon’stone bowl abruptly 
cut off. The voice boomed back at him, sounding as if it came from all around. 
“Never speak that name!” A lash of mist whipped out and struck his cheek.
Pain exploded across his face, as if his skin had been flailed from the bone and 
acid poured in the wound. With a cry of agony, Mogweed fell on his side. He 
clutched his wounded face. He found no injury. He was undamaged, but the pain 
persisted, fading too slowly.
Mogweed fought to speak. “Th-they know all about you, not just your true name.”
“It matters not.” But for the first time, Mogweed heard a trace of doubt in the 
demon’s voice. Mogweed pushed up from the mud. He himself lived in a world of 
fear, hesitancy, and doubt. This was his own territory; he knew its terrain 
better than any, how such qualms could be fanned.
Wit ch Star
“They know all about ebon’stone and heartstone,” he lied. “The wit’ch in the 
Gate revealed all. They know what you did at the Gate on the eve of your oath 
taking.”
Silence met these words. Mogweed sat straighten He knew the power of secrets 
exposed, even if they were only suspected. Since a child, Mogweed had held his 
heart closed and tight, his inner thoughts his own. He knew how it felt when 
such hidden trappings were exposed for all to see—whether you were king, demon, 
or simple man.
He pressed his advantage. “For bringing you such critical information, I simply 
ask a boon.” He bowed his head. “Forgive my past failings and allow me to serve 
you. I will be your eyes and ears among the others. I know their strengths and 
weaknesses… as they now know yours,” he added, plying his trade with deft skill. 
“Let me show you their hearts. That is all I ask in trade for my freedom from 
this crowded prison of flesh.”
The silence stretched, but Mogweed knew he wasn’t alone. Finally, the voice 
returned, laced with hoarfrost and ice. “Then prove your words. Tell me where 
the heart of the wit’ch is most weak.”
Mogweed thought quickly. He needed a convincing answer. And though he’d rather 
trade in lies, he knew he would now have to barter in a bit of the truth. “She 
is weakest where all women are most tender,” he said after a moment. “To damage 
her the most foully, seek not to harm her directly. There is a spot where she 
can be shattered with an easier touch.” He held his breath, pausing. “What?” the 
voice asked acidly.
“Do we have a pact?” Mogweed pressed. “My secrets for my freedom?”
“First a taste of your ware, mouse. Answer my question; then we will barter. 
What is this weak spot in the wit’ch?”
Mogweed hesitated for a breath more—not for show this time, but in concern for 
the line he was about to cross. “Speak or die now! What is her weakness?”
He bowed his head. “Er’ril… the Standi plainsman. He is all that stands between 
her and defeat. Destroy him and you’ll wound the wit’ch beyond healing.” Mogweed 
felt something black settle in his chest—not from the Dark Lord, but of his own 
making. He knew that he had crossed a line from which he could never return.
“My lieutenant’s brother…” the voice hissed from the mists. Mogweed frowned, 
then remembered that the demon-mage Shorkan had once been the plainsman’s 
brother. “That is a taste of the knowledge I
can bring you,“ he continued. ”Proof that eyes and ears close to the wit’ch can 
be of advantage.“
The mists parted around him, drifting back into the well of the ebon’stone bowl. 
The voice spoke again. “You’ve given us something worth pondering. For that, you 
will be allowed another day of life. But for your freedom of the flesh, a higher 
price will need to be paid.” Mogweed silently cursed. “What?” he spoke aloud. 
“Anything.”
“You must not only be our eyes and ears… but also our hands.” Mogweed’s brow 
crinkled. “How so?”
As answer, from out of the darkness over the bowl, something black entered this 
world. Mogweed stared at it with horror. A single black orb rested in the basin, 
an egg in a most foul nest. It was the size of a doubled fist. Veins of silver 
forked over the orb’s polished surface. Ebon’stone.
Mogweed knew what lay in the bowl. He had heard the stories of the ebon’stone 
eggs seeded at A’loa Glen, of the sick clutch that had hatched in the dungeons 
of the castle, of the contamination of Sy-wen and Hunt. Here was a smaller 
brother of the others.
“What do you want me to do with this?” he asked the empty night. Words rose from 
the bowl, muffled now by the egg. “Take this seed and plant it where we tell 
you.”
Mogweed suspected, from its tiny size, that this egg contained only a single one 
of the tentacled beasts. Or maybe it contained something even more foul. He 
shivered at the mere sight of it. Who was this meant for? When last he had 
communicated with the demon in the bowl, Tol’chuk’s life had been the price for 
Mogweed’s freedom. Would it be again? “Where do you want it planted?” The answer 
rose from the bowl.
Mogweed gasped, cringing back. The answer chilled him to the marrow of his 
bones. He wished now it had been Tol’chuk. “Why?” he asked. “It makes no sense.”
“It is not your need to know why, little mouse, but to scurry and do our 
bidding. Only then will you find your way to freedom.”
Mogweed balked—but he had no choice. He nodded. “It will be done.”
“Fail a second time, and your torment will know no end.”
Mogweed fingered the trace of a burn on his cheek. He knew such threats were not 
idle. He had barely escaped with his life this night. But he had won another 
chance to shatter the shackles that bound him to his brother. He would not fail 
this time. He dared not.
As he crouched, a great weight lifted from his shoulders, and warmth
Wit ch Star filled the void left behind. Mogweed stared at the bowl. The Dark 
Lord was gone. The doorway between their worlds had closed again.
Sighing with relief, he sagged before the ebon’stone nest. What was asked of him 
would not be easy, but it had to be accomplished. If he ever wished to be free 
of his brother, he would simply have to harden his heart against the fears 
rooted there.
With care, he collected both bowl and egg into his pack, burying them among his 
personal items. With a final breath to steady himself, he stood and left the 
tiny copse of woods.
Once free of the trees, he heard raised voices echoing from the entrance of the 
og’re cavern. He strode quickly, ready for the warmth of the caves and the 
brightness of the hearth fires. As he neared the yawning opening, he saw Elena 
and Er’ril, along with most of their companions, gathered just inside.
Meric spotted Mogweed and waved him over. Frowning, Mogweed obeyed. They were 
all gathered around Joach. Sounds of amazement rose from the crowd.
“You look five decades younger,” Harlequin muttered, walking in a circle around 
the boy.
Joach smiled. “And I feel even younger than that.”
Mogweed put on a mask of surprise. He had already witnessed the transformation. 
But for now, he kept up a pretense of shock.
Er’ril wore a scowl. “And Greshym’s death brought this boon upon you?”
Joach shrugged. “I can only suppose so.” The boy pointed to a bier that bore the 
slack body of the darkmage, guarded by two og’res. “I can’t imagine the two are 
not related. My youth, his death.”
Mogweed stepped to the corpse’s side, gaping in shock. The darkmage’s face was 
blue, eyes glassy and blind. No, this can’t be… He turned to the others. “When 
did he die?”
Elena answered. “He was discovered by Joach just a short time ago. There was no 
mark on his body.” Her eyes flicked toward Joach. “It seems his heart simply 
gave out.”
“Like he had a heart,” Magnam mumbled at her side.
But Mogweed caught the suspicious glance shared by Elena and Er’ril. They 
suspected foul play here, perpetrated by Elena’s own brother— murder for the 
sake of youth.
“You’d best cut the body into bits,” Harlequin said. “Bury the parts in separate 
unmarked graves. From the stories, the dead of the Dark Lord don’t always stay 
dead.”
Er’ril nodded. “With the dawn’s light, it will be done.”
Joach stood among the others: hale of limb, straight of back, his face unlined. 
He met Mogweed’s eyes for a moment, then glanced away. But in that tiny moment, 
Mogweed sensed something in the other’s eyes: something dread unspoken.
Mogweed remembered the exchange by the horse corral. The elv’in sailor had 
touched Joach, transforming the bent-backed elder into the young man before him 
now. Then the sailor had ridden off, not toward the elv’in ship, but into the 
woods.
Mogweed studied Joach. It seemed there was more afoot here than was spoken. 
Before he could ponder it further, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, startling 
him. He turned to find Tol’chuk beside him. “Strange night,” the og’re mumbled.
Mogweed bobbed his head, not trusting his voice. Tol’chuk didn’t know half how 
strange this night truly had been. The pack he carried hung hard on his 
shoulder, and his duty even harder on his heart. What am I to do now? Why hadn’t 
the Dar’t Lord known of his minion’s death?
Tol’chuk gave his shoulder a squeeze, then stepped away. “The fires be stoked by 
the hearth. The furs should be warm. Go and rest yourself.”
Mogweed was tempted, but all thoughts of rest were driven away by the sight of 
the bier. With Greshym dead, how was he to finish his assignment? It was not the 
og’re for whom the egg had been intended—but Greshym. Why the Dark Lord sought 
to possess one of his own made no sense. Perhaps the egg contained a means of 
escape for the mage? He shook his head. Once again, due to no blame of his own, 
Mogweed had failed the Black Beast. He had come too late.
What do I do now? He dared not contact the Dark Lord again this night. It would 
surely mean his death.
A burst of laughter from Joach drew his attention. The boy was full of mirth, 
his voice loud with youth and vigor. Mogweed studied the lad, a master of dream 
and illusion.
He again pictured the elv’in touching Joach, transforming him, then riding off. 
Where had the elv’in gone? And why? It made no sense.
Mogweed glanced to the cold corpse, then out to the night beyond the cavern 
entrance. His mind ran along strange paths. A master of illusion… He turned 
again at a bark of laughter from the boy. His eyes narrowed. What have you done, 
Joach?
The boy’s eyes swung toward Mogweed. But before anything could be said, a 
commotion erupted near the entrance to the cavern. A trundling of og’res burst 
into the cave, armed with clubs—sentries. They grumbled in their native tongue.
Tol’chuk bouldered through the others and spoke to the guards. “They’ve spotted 
the winged child,” he reported. “Cassa!” Jaston exclaimed. “Is she all right?”
The other si’luran scouts had returned at sunset. Only the swamp child had 
remained out searching the lower hills. Earlier, when Mogweed had slipped from 
Thorn’s furs and left the caves, Jaston had been pacing a rut in the stone 
floor.
Tol’chuk nodded. “Fear not. She comes.”
They all followed the trio of sentries out into the open meadows. Mogweed 
searched the night skies. It seemed impossible to spot anything in the gloom; 
even the moon had set. But from his experience with Tol’chuk, he knew an og’re 
could see in the dark.
One of the sentries pointed his club. After a short time, Mogweed spotted a 
small flitter against the starlight. He watched the shape grow and sweep toward 
them.
Jaston stepped to Mogweed’s side. “It’s her!” the swamper exclaimed with joy. 
Mogweed caught the glint of unshed tears in the man’s eyes; he scowled and 
crossed his arms.
The child flew over the meadow and down toward the gathered group. From the 
tumbled flight and dogged beat of her wings, she was clearly exhausted. She 
landed in the grass, her face ashen against her dark hair. Jaston hurried 
forward. “Cassa!”
The child lifted a hand of restraint. The voice from the figure was faint, 
thready with spent energies. “I… I have found the last Weirgate!”
Elena awoke in her cabin aboard the Windsprite, surprised by the knocking on the 
door and doubly surprised that she had fallen asleep. Light streamed through the 
thin window. She rubbed her eyes. It must be well past midday. Why had Er’ril 
let her sleep for so long?
Of course, she knew the answer. After Joach’s miraculous rejuvenation and the 
arrival of Cassa Dar’s swamp child, the remainder of the night had been lost to 
discussions and final plans. She’d had no sleep. Only after the armies had 
rallied and were under way with the rising sun had Er’ril managed to herd her to 
her cabin for a short rest.
The knock sounded again. “Mistress Elena.”
She threw off the blanket. She was still in her clothes from last night. “Yes?” 
she answered.
“Master Er’ril requests you join him in the galley.”
Elena rolled to her feet and slipped into her boots. “I’ll be there 
momentarily.” She crossed to a washbasin and gilded mirror. She fixed her hair 
back with a sweep of her fingers and a silver pin. She met her own eyes in the 
mirror, seeking some sign of the strength she would need in the next days. But 
all she saw was a girl with shadows under her eyes and lines of worry etched at 
their edges.
Sisa’kofa’s words still echoed to her from the core of the world: Elena 
Morin’stal, descendant of wit’ches and eh’in blood… You will hold the threads to 
the world’s fate.
Elena shivered. How could that be? How could she hold the world in her hands? 
She lifted her two ruby palms. It was scant magick for what would be asked of 
her.
She sighed. Ever since picking that apple in her family orchard, she had begun a 
long road that led full circle back where she started. She had learned much 
about herself, about the hearts of men and women. She had made good friends and 
lost many. There had to be some purpose in walking this long road, but what? It 
couldn’t just be power and magickal skill. Sisa’kofa had said that she had best 
look to her own heart and those around her. Elena sensed that an answer lay 
hidden somewhere in the steps she had taken to get here—an answer she would need 
to discover too soon.
She stared into the eyes of the mirror. All she saw was a stranger. “What do you 
know?” she whispered.
The stranger remained silent and unhappy. The knock sounded again.
Elena closed her eyes, breaking her reverie. Er’ril was right; she had needed 
the sleep.
Steeling herself, she crossed to the door and opened it. Her escort was a young 
elv’in lad. He bowed from the waist. She waved him on, and he led her briskly 
down a crisscross of corridors and up a short stair to the fore-deck galley, now 
a makeshift war room.
Elena entered and found the various leaders of the armies at hand, and many of 
her companions. They all stood from the table as she approached. The elder’root 
was dressed in a loose white robe, easy to shed when he shifted into the golden 
eagle form he wore when rallying his folk. At his side, Tol’chuk stood with 
Joach. Elena smiled at her brother, still unaccustomed to the man she now saw.
On the other side of the table, Jaston stood with Cassa Dar’s child in his arms. 
The little girl was sucking her thumb, clearly still exhausted. Meric and 
Nee’lahn stood hand in hand, while beyond them, leaning against the walls, stood 
Magnam and Harlequin Quail, along with Fardale and Thorn.
Er’ril motioned Elena to an empty seat by the table. “We thought now would be a 
good time for last strategies,” he said. “The sun will soon set, and we want to 
be in our positions by nightfall for tomorrow’s assault on the valley.”
“How far out are we?” Elena asked, seating herself. “My lead scouts have reached 
the edges of the burned swath,” the elder’root answered. “They relay reports 
even now.”
“The rest of the armies?”
“The Ravenswing keeps pace with the og’re forces,” Tol’chuk said. “We expect to 
be camped at the valley’s edge by midnight.”
Er’ril pointed to a map on the table. “We drew this up according to

Cassa Dar’s report. We’ll position the og’res along the western edge of the 
valley.“ He pointed with his finger. ”At dawn, Hun’shwa’s forces will encircle 
the dredged pit. Once entrenched, the si’luran armies will lead an initial 
assault from the air, driving as far into the pit as possible, dropping to the 
ground, and shifting into beasts to hold the next line. In turn, the og’res will 
charge to bolster their positions and move the lines forward.“
“Then the si’luran forces will take wing again,” the elder’root said. “And move 
the fight another step deeper.”
Er’ril nodded. “We’ll have the two armies leapfrog each other, step by step, 
down into the pit.”
Elena stared at the oval scrawl on the map, shaded in with coal. She studied the 
rest of the terrain in silence. This was her home. Though crudely drawn, she 
knew its hills and valleys, its streams and ponds. They were etched on her 
heart.
“What do you think, Elena?” Er’ril asked.
She nodded silently. Her husband’s eyes shone with the fervor of a true knight 
on the eve of battle. His cheeks glowed ruddy. He was in his own element this 
day.
But stratagems of war were not her calling. “What of us?” she asked, swallowing 
back a knot in her throat.
Er’ril pinched his brow. “Once the attack is well under way, we’ll fly in aboard 
the Ravenswing, getting as low as we can over the center of the pit. Once there, 
we’ll send down Cassa Dar’s child to survey the area. If it’s clear, we rope 
down into its heart. Surely that’s where the last Weirgate must lie.”
“Who else will join us in this last assault?”
Er’ril straightened. “Besides myself, those with the strongest magick to support 
you—Joach, Meric, and Nee’lahn.”
Joach gripped his staff. She saw the pride in her brother’s face. After being so 
long crippled, he was strong and hale, able to protect his sister again. But 
beneath this fire, she recognized a dark edge to his bearing, a hardness that 
had not been there before. Last night, she had discussed with Er’ril the 
possibility that Joach had slain Greshym to regain his youth. Er’ril had agreed 
with her suspicions, but ultimately, he was more relieved than concerned: 
Whether at Joach’s hand or not, Greshym was gone. Now, seeing the darkness 
behind Joach’s eyes, Elena was not so sure they had escaped the darkmage’s evil.
She shifted her attention to Meric and Nee’lahn. The pair had been among her 
first allies. And where Joach had grown darker, they now shone brighter. She saw 
how they clasped to each other, always touching. It seemed the long road here 
had softened, rather than hardened, their hearts. Elena took joy in this. She 
nodded to them in thanks—both for all they had done in the past and for this 
last sacrifice.
Er’ril spoke, drawing back her attention. “But we may need more than magick to 
reach the Wyvern Gate. So a few others will join us in this assault.”
“Two shape-shifters,” the elder’root said from across the table. “My daughter 
Thorn and her betrothed, Fardale.”
Elena’s eyebrows rose as Fardale bowed to her. Though he bore Mog-weed’s face, 
there was still a wolfish carriage to the man, a sense of the wild wood.
“Long ago, I ventured from these forests at your side,” Fardale said stiffly. 
“I’ve watched you grow from a girl to a woman, from a wit’ch to a queen. And 
though we could share no words, I’ve known your heart all along. I will not 
leave your side now. I can’t. Your scent is in my blood. You are my pack.” He 
pressed a fist to his chest in an oath bonding.
“Thank you,” Elena mumbled, fighting tears.
“We’ll also take a strength of arm,” Er’ril added. “Tol’chuk and the d’warf 
Magnam.”
Tol’chuk nodded. “Like Fardale, I could also be nowhere else.” His eyes glowed 
warmly toward her. And though he could not speak mind to mind like a 
shape-shifter, she heard the love and determination behind his words.
Magnam crossed his arms beside the og’re, amusement in his eyes. “And where Lord 
Boulder goes, I must follow.”
“I’ve also won a place among this illustrious party,” Harlequin Quail said with 
a shrug. “It seems saving all your lives back at the Spirit Gate has softened 
the plainsman’s iron stubbornness.”
Er’ril sighed. “His speed and cleverness could prove useful.”
Elena surveyed the room. Sisa’kofa had said to look to her friends during the 
darkest moments ahead. At least they wouldn’t be far from her side.
She gathered her courage, bolstered by those around her. “The plan seems sound. 
What of the assault on Blackhall?”
Joach spoke up. “I’ve coordinated with Xin back at the Dragonsheart. They’ll 
attack the same morning.”
“All is ready,” she noted.
“As best we can manage,” Er’ril said.
Elena stared again at the map. By this time tomorrow, half the world would be at 
war. Tomorrow, she would lead these, her closest friends and allies, to their 
doom.
“If this meets with your approval,” Er’ril said, “we can send everyone off to 
spread the word and begin preparations.”
Without taking her eyes from the crude map, she nodded. “So be it.” The group 
broke apart; only Er’ril remained in the galley with her. He poured a mug of 
steaming tea, brought it to the table, and shoved the hot mug between her cold 
fingers. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly. “What’s wrong?” She waved a hand over 
the map. “What’s right?” Er’ril grabbed her hand. “Look at me,” he said, sitting 
beside her. She finally did.
In his eyes, the ruddy glow of his captainship had died down to a simple 
somberness. He spoke from his heart. “Tomorrow many will die. That is war. But 
for now we live.”
“But—”
“Hush.” He brought up her trapped hand and kissed her palm. “For now we live.”
The warmth of his lips were a balm on the ache in her chest. She closed her eyes 
and allowed it to spread through her. Too soon, he pulled away but remained 
cupping her hand, holding the warmth of his kiss. “I saw your face when you 
studied the map,” he said quietly, touching the heart of her pain with his 
words. “You recognized where the pit had been dug.”
Tears rose. She had been fighting them since she had first viewed the dreadful 
map. She moved her free hand and touched the charcoal-shaded pit. “Uncle Bol…”
Er’ril squeezed her hand. “It was where his cabin once stood. And before that, 
where the mages of my time had their school.”
Elena finally found her voice. “Cassa Dar mentioned a confluence of energies?”
Er’ril nodded. “A knot of power, stronger than any of the Land’s pulse points. 
The Dark Lord means to place the Wyvern Gate at this vital artery of the Land, 
to corrupt the world once and for all.”
“And Uncle Bol placed his cabin atop there.”
“Maybe he knew—whether consciously or not…”
Elena pinched her brow, remembering a long time ago. “Uncle Bol mentioned 
something about the caverns under his cabin. He had said he thought the mages 
built their school there because they sensed the flow of power.”
“And De’nal. He fled down into those same caverns. Crystallizing his spirit, 
waiting for us, maintained by the energies there.”
°
Elena sighed. “So we end this where it began.”
Er’ril gathered up her other hand. “And likewise, where we started this road 
together. We’ll end it the same.”
She mustered a grateful smile, remembering Sisa’kofa’s words. The spirit of the 
ancient wit’ch had been right. The words spoken before the Gate could not be 
shared… not even with Er’ril. Instead, Elena allowed him the delusion that they 
were headed into this last fight hand in hand. Clearly he needed to believe this 
as much as she did, and she would not take that from him. But in the end, she 
would stand alone, the fate of the world in her hands. She allowed Er’ril to 
clench those same hands now, the hands of a wit’ch, the hands of a woman.
Hold them while you still can, she thought silently. Eventually you’ll have
to let go.
As THE SUN SET, MeRIC STOOD WITH Nee’lAHN ATOP THE BOW DECK OF THE
Windsprite. He closed his eyes and reveled in the winds and the tingle of magick 
threading through the ship. He longed to reach to the iron keel below; its 
energies glowed at the edge of his mind’s eye. But this was not his ship. The 
captain, a second cousin on his father’s side, was doing an able job of manning 
the craft and keeping pace with the armies below. His own assistance was not 
needed.
Instead he cast his senses out, freely plying the winds and gusts. He delved 
outward, brushing a stray breeze as another might sweep back the locks of hair 
from a brow. As he did so, he felt the distant thunder beyond the horizon.
A storm rolled toward them from the sea, building and piling clouds of warm and 
cold air. Moisture, still scented by the sea, filled the skies. The vibrations 
of forked lightning chased through his senses, and farther yet, winds built like 
waves, ready to crash upon these highland heights.
Before dawn, the skies would be as much at war as the Land itself. He would 
alert Er’ril and the others, but the matter could wait for the moment. He opened 
his eyes. As yet, the skies were clear. Only a few wisps of high clouds, rosy 
streaks against the bruised purple skies, marred the day’s gloaming. The sun set 
behind them. To the east, purple skies were already dark. A few stars shone.
Nee’lahn stirred beside him. “We near the burned trees.”
Meric drew a deep breath. The air smelled of woodsmoke, but no more than a 
moment ago. In the foothills below, the og’res marched through healthy woods and 
meadowed glades. For such large creatures, they loped at surprising speeds, 
boulders rolling downhill from the mountaintop.
He searched wider afield, toward the dark horizon, but he saw nothing but green 
life. “I don’t see the blackened orchard.”
Nee’lahn sagged near the rail. “I feel it.” Her hand rose to her brow, then 
settled between her breasts. “It aches worse than any blight. Around me now, the 
woodsong sings, bright as a highland spring, but ahead and approaching ever 
closer, I can hear a dreadful discordance—not the silence of my blighted home, 
but a deep cry of torture.” Her hands rose to cover her ears.
Meric leaned his hip against the rail and pulled her into his arms. “Let it go,” 
he whispered to her. “The lament you hear will be the last sad song. I promise 
you. We will prevail.”
She leaned against him. “I pray it will be so… but…”
He did not need any special magick to hear the thoughts unspoken. “Rodricko is 
safe,” he assured her. “Kast will keep Sheeshon and Ro-dricko aboard the 
Dragonsheart, out of harm’s way.”
Nee’lahn made a small sound of negation. “With the dawn, no place will be safe.”
He gently kissed her honeyed hair. She smelled of rose petals and orange 
blossoms. “Your son will be protected.”
A murmur, unintelligible to most, but he understood and corrected his words. 
“Our son.” With the sun’s rise earlier this day, they had made vows to one 
another, witnessed only by the open skies and the forests below. Who knew if 
they’d have a chance later? It seemed foolish to hold one’s tongue and not speak 
what was in one’s heart. It was in these same forests that the two had first 
met, ancient enemies with bitter blood between them. But at the end of this long 
road of hardship and loss, it seemed the past was not so important as the 
present. His hand sought hers. Fingers entwined, matching their hearts.
“The darkness nears,” she whispered.
Meric swung his gaze again to the dark horizon. Just at the edge of the world, 
green forest tumbled into blackness. A column of smoke rose into the sky, a 
deeper ink than the twilight murk. He had no ability to hear woodsong, but the 
plight of the fouled land ahead still screamed in his ears.
He had an urge to call the winds around him, to steal the ship from his cousin 
and wheel them away. It was death to go into that land, a blasted terrain of 
hollow defeat. But instead, he clutched Nee’lahn tighter.
Distantly, the storm beyond the horizon thundered in his ears, thudding deep in 
his chest and echoing in his bones. He was a lightning rod, vibrating to the 
forces coming together here.
Nee’lahn must have sensed it, too. She lifted her head and stared eastward with 
him. The line of green hills ended at the blackened forest. It spread as far as 
the eye could see. “It is the end of the world.”
Er’ril had tried to stop Elena from coming topside, but from the steel in her 
eyes, he had known it was futile. But now, seeing her stricken face in the 
moonlight, he wished he had chained her belowdecks.
She stood at the rail, staring out toward the devastation that had once been her 
home. The orchards were stripped to fire-hardened spears aimed at the sky. The 
air reeked of smoke and ash.
With night fallen, the ruined hills shone in spots with the ruddy glow of buried 
coals. Embers still smoldered; the glow reminded Er’ril of the fires found in 
the peat bogs below the Northern Steppes. Journeyers had to be cautious of these 
hotbeds. A careless foot could lead to a fiery doom. But the terrain here, 
Er’ril suspected, was even more dangerous. There was no telling what dire 
magicks lay lurking beneath the smoky, smoldering landscape.
For caution’s sake, the Windspnte kept its distance from the ruined valleys. 
Below, in forests still green, the og’re forces were gathering, setting up the 
short night’s camp. The si’luran army settled also to their own nighttime 
roosts, some remaining in winged forms, others reverting to whatever felt most 
comfortable: bears, wolves, forest cats, or a blend in between.
Over the valley, the moon hung heavy and bright, one night from its midsummer 
fullness—when the world would balance on the success or failure of their 
actions.
Thunder rumbled like the drums of war. A storm rolled in from the distant coast. 
According to Meric, the first raindrops would be felt late this night; by 
morning, they’d be caught in the teeth of the storm. Sloggy footing for an 
assault, but the storm would be just as hard on the enemy. And under the cover 
of thunder and rain, perhaps they could get even closer to the pit before having 
to engage the Dark Lord’s armies, whatever they might be.
Er’ril frowned. That’s what troubled him most about the sight before him and the 
long road here. They had encountered no sign of the enemy.
He was not so nai’ve as to believe that whatever lay out in the pit was not 
aware of their encroachment. So why no harrying, no gnashing at their flanks? 
Were the entrenched forces so sure of their own might? It made Er’ril more 
nervous than if they had to fight for every step.
Across the blasted landscape, the pit was a void, its edges clouded with smoke 
and dark mists. But at its heart, an infernal glow shone forth, swelling and 
subsiding like some monstrous forge, breathing in and out. It was a numbing 
sight, one that drained the spirit to look upon it.
Slowly the others had drifted belowdecks. The plans for the morrow were set, 
guards and sentinels posted for the night in case the enemy attacked, and after 
the long journey, all sought whatever comforts they needed on this last night. 
Some had gone to pray, others to seek the company of friends and lovers, others 
still to solitary contemplation of the morning. With the dawn, the horns would 
sound and this last battle for the Weirgate would be under way.
Er’ril stood his post beside Elena. Joach stood on her other side. He seemed no 
less shocked to discover the fate of their valley home. Though the death of 
Greshym had rejuvenated the boy, he now leaned on his staff, weighted down by 
his own heavy heart.
Across the skies, the stars slowly disappeared as clouds rolled across them, the 
front edges of the storm. Small flickers of lightning danced the fringes. Soon 
the moon would be gone, and night would claim the valley and wipe the dreadful 
view away. As Er’ril watched Elena sink into a pit of despair as deep as the one 
in her homelands, he wished the storm to hurry toward them, to hide the horror 
from her eyes.
Joach shifted his feet and shrugged his cloak tighter to his shoulders. “It 
grows cold. Perhaps we should go below.” He glanced to Er’ril over the top of 
Elena’s head. Joach motioned with his chin, encouraging Er’ril to help him, then 
guided Elena back from the rail. She moved woodenly.
As a gust of wind blew across the deck, Er’ril felt the first drops of rain 
splatter his cheek, cold and biting. He took Elena’s other arm. “We should rest 
while we can,” he muttered.
Together, Joach and Er’ril led her to the foredeck hatch. Stepping ahead, Joach 
opened the door and motioned them through. He mumbled to Er’ril as they passed. 
“Take care of my sister.”
“With all my heart,” he answered back, breathless with worry. Joach remained at 
the doorway. “I’m going to check with Tol’chuk and make sure the og’re clans 
have gathered before I seek my bed.”
Er’ril nodded and led Elena to their cabin. She had yet to speak a word. She 
seemed again the little girl he had once rescued from these very lands—just as 
mute, just as worn of heart.
Inside, coals shone brightly in the small hearth, and the warmth melted away the 
chill almost immediately. Er’ril guided Elena to the bed, then bent to help 
remove her boots.
“I can manage,” she finally said, and shook the stubborn boot off. Her voice was 
not nearly as lost as he would have expected. She fought the other boot to join 
its twin. It thumped to the floor, followed by a long sigh.
“Are you all right?” Er’ril asked, still on one knee.
She nodded slowly, but her lower lip trembled.
He read her expression and did not press her. Instead, he stood and kicked off 
his own boots. “We should catch what sleep we can,” he said softly.
She stripped out of her calfskin jacket, while he shrugged out of his cloak. 
Slowly they shed their outer trappings until both stood only in their 
undergarments. Elena unbound the sash around her waist to let her linen shift 
fall loose, draping from shoulders to midthigh.
Er’ril rolled back the furs and heavy woolen blanket. He turned to invite her 
into the bed first, but he found her eyes upon him. Before he could utter a 
word, she gently pushed him to the bed. She slid her hands under the edge of his 
own shirt, her palms warm on his still-cold skin. She slid her fingers up his 
chest, drawing his shirt up with it.
He reached and trapped her hands halfway up. “Elena…” They had not slept 
bare-skinned together since the night of her near freezing in the si’luran 
glade.
She freed her hands from his grip with a stolid determination and continued to 
remove his shirt, drawing it over his head and tossing it aside.
He stared into her eyes and saw her need. She stood back and loosened the ties 
to her own shift from around her neck. The drape of linen fell, shivering down 
from her shoulders to pile at her ankles. She stepped out, naked, a woman of 
startling beauty in the light of the hearth. The glow bathed her skin like a 
flow of liquid light, casting all into warm hues, from the curve of her neck, to 
the swell of her breasts, to the fullness of her hips.
She came to him in all her womanliness, and he found no breath for words. He 
made a sound half between drowning and desire.
Standing before him, she let her hands touch him again: his cheek, his neck, 
down an arm. She drew his own hand and placed his palm on her belly.
He finally found his voice. “Elena, we mustn’t… not like this… not now…”
Thunder rumbled from the skies beyond, reminding of the war to come. Its roar 
trembled through the ship.
Elena slid beside him on the bed. “Why?” she whispered, ignoring his words.
“With dawn, the battle begins. We should—”
She drew the furs over them, drawing him down to the pillows and nest of 
blankets. Her skin on his own melted his reason. “Why?” she repeated in his ear.
“The war—”
“No,” she interrupted again, her lips brushing the tender skin below his ear. 
“The reason in your heart.”
Er’ril closed his eyes as a shudder of desire swept from his toes to the core of 
his being. He fought to speak without a moan. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She shifted to stare him in the eye. Flecks of gold swam in her emerald eyes. 
“You know,” she said huskily. “I know. It’s been unspoken between us too long.”
He was overly conscious of her breast on his arm, but he did know. “I… I’m an 
old man… too old.” It came out with a relieved rush. “I’ve lived for over five 
centuries.”
Elena sighed. “And I’m too young.”
He opened his eyes and found his voice again. “Despite your womanly body, you’re 
still just a girl of fifteen winters.” He could not keep the shame out of his 
voice.
She stared sadly at him. “Fifteen winters? Perhaps. But in these past winters, 
it’s not only magic’t that has aged me into this womanly body. On this journey, 
I’ve slain both enemies and those I’ve loved. I’ve led armies to victory and to 
ruin. I’ve entered the very heart of darkness and survived death itself. And 
along this road, I’ve learned…” Tears filled her eyes. “I learned to love… you”
“Elena…” He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tight to him.
“What does the count of winters matter?” she whispered. “My heart is far older 
than even the handful of winters that the spell has aged me.” Another shuddering 
sob. A fist thumped his chest, in both irritation and hopelessness. “And you… 
you hardened your heart against the world from the time you were scarcely older 
than I am now. Your immortality didn’t just freeze your age… it froze your 
heart.”
Er’ril lay with her and could find no argument for her words. Ever since the 
Blood Diary had been forged in the inn at Winterfell, he had walked the world 
one step away from all others. Over the centuries, he had marched thousands of 
roads and fought countless battles in unnamed fields, but only in the brief time 
he had spent with Vira’ni had he ever let his heart thaw from the ice of 
immortality. And even after that short respite, he had let it harden again.
He shifted, lifting Elena’s face between his palms. He studied the woman in his 
arms. Were they truly so far apart in age? In her eyes, he finally saw the 
truth. The depth of sadness, the age of the woman who stared back at him… 
“Er’ril—”
“Hush.” He rolled to his side, pulling her slightly under him. He now stared 
down at the woman he loved—the woman he wanted to love. For the first time since 
lying with her, he allowed his desire to break free. It was a fire that burned 
through his heart and limbs. He gasped, surprised by the intensity of his 
feelings.
He bent down and kissed her, his will taken from him. Now it was her turn to 
gasp, lips crushed, breaths shared. Their arms tightened into iron, fingers 
struggling to hold even tighter.
Thunder cracked somewhere far overhead, while a gust of rain pattered against 
the wooden sides of the boat, sounding like an arrow barrage. The boat rocked 
and lurched in the sudden surge of storm winds.
But neither of them acknowledged it, locked in each other’s arms, locked in each 
other’s heart.
Er’ril broke finally from the kiss, moving his lips to her neck, to her breast. 
She arched to meet him, crying out.
“Elena…” he moaned in chorus with her. He lifted his eyes for a moment to meet 
hers. He rode the crest of a wave from which he was about to tumble. Their gazes 
met. He sought one last time for a warding signal, some sign to hold off. But 
all he saw in her eyes was the same shared passion, a fire that melted the 
boundaries between them.
No words were needed at this moment, but Elena whispered them anyway. “Don’t 
save me… just love me.”
“Always…” he answered, falling into her. “Always and forever.”
From a promontory a league away, Greshym sat atop his roan gelding and stared up 
at the storm-tossed boat. He studied his target.
The iron keel of the Windsprite was a streak of fire in the night. Light-ning 
briefly illuminated the reefed sails and rain-swept masts. The ship bobbed and 
skipped like a cork riding the winds of the storm. He could just make out the 
azure brightness of a figure at the stern deck—the captain, he supposed, 
struggling to ride out the storm. The others must all be below, waiting out the 
wild weather, waiting for the dawn.
He smiled as a gust parted the limbs of the oak under which he stood and 
drenched him with water. He shifted the staff in his hands and dried his clothes 
and body with a small spell, casting out a shield of magick to insulate himself 
from the storm’s cold and dampness.
It was good to have his power returned to him. He glanced to the beast cowering 
in the lee of his horse, rain sluicing from the stump gnome’s gray skin, its 
peaked ears flat against its skull. Rukh trembled. The gnome’s ribs showed along 
its leathery side, and it moved with a slight limp. The beast had been 
hard-pressed to cross the forest and meet its master as instructed.
After being freed by Joach, Greshym had fled west beyond the reach of the book’s 
spell—almost five leagues. He had known when he crossed beyond Cho’s tether. It 
was as if something burst inside him, and he knew he was free, his magick 
available to him again.
Unleashed, it was not hard to discover Rukh’s location and meet the gnome. He 
was relieved that the beast still had his staff. While it was just a hollow 
length of bone, he would have wasted precious time fashioning a new one. He 
reclaimed it gratefully and fueled it with simple energies—a woodsman and his 
family had proven a surprisingly rich source of power. With Rukh’s help, he had 
fed all their hearts’ blood into the hollow bone’s marrow. The youngest child, a 
lad of only three winters, even bore a small spark of elemental fire. Enlivened 
by this surprising fuel, his staff had ripened with magicks. Afterward, Rukh had 
fed on the meat off the woodsman’s bones, the gnome’s first decent meal in ages.
Both of them renewed, they had set off back east again in pursuit of 
Shadowsedge, the wit’ch sword. Greshym had used a bit of magick to make his 
steed’s hooves fly through the woods. He raced back over the pass to close the 
distance to the marching armies, following their trail, keeping himself cloaked 
in magick. By nightfall, he was within sight of the ship.
And as he suspected, his magick remained his own. Once broken, Cho’s dampening 
spell had not renewed itself. It would take a fresh spell to bind him again to 
the book—something he would not let happen. “I’ll have my sword,” he promised 
the night.
His plan was simple. During the confusion of the battle tomorrow, he would 
simply use a black portal to reach the ship, snatch the sword, and be off before 
anyone was aware. He dared not risk such a venture this night. On this eve of 
battle, everyone was at their most alert. No, he would be cautious, patient. He 
would not lose this one chance to gain Shadows-edge for himself. With the blade, 
there was no one who could stand before him—not Shorkan, not even the Dark Lord 
himself.
Greshym licked his lips. With the sword’s ability to shatter any spell, nothing 
could touch him. After five centuries, he would finally be free!
A bolt of lightning crackled across the breadth of the sky from one horizon to 
another. The entire world appeared out of the darkness, limned in silver, frozen 
in time.
The Windsprite hung in the night, a glowing lantern. Greshym narrowed his eyes. 
Tuned to all things magickal, he sensed some profound shift in the world, as if 
a nexus of power had been torn wide. He held his breath, overwhelmed.
Then the lightning flashed away, taking the world with it, leaving only an 
endless rumble of thunder. The forest around him seemed darker than a moment 
before.
Despite his insulating spell, Greshym shivered. Something had changed in that 
moment… but what?
He turned his steed and fled deeper into the rimwood forest. No, this was not a 
night to tread where he was not wanted. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
As DAWN NEARED, ElENA LAY IN THE RUMPLE OF FURS AND BLANKETS, Listening to the 
wail of winds and tumult of thunder. In the tiny hearth, the fire had burned 
down to scant coals, leaving the room dark. Er’ril remained curled at her side, 
spent, sleeping now as dawn drew nearer.
She could not sleep. Instead, she nestled against the man she loved. His skin 
kept her warm, his breath on her cheek calmed her, and the beat of his heart 
echoed between them. She wished this moment to last forever, though she knew 
that the world would claim them both again.
She stared into the darkness, appreciating the warm ache in the pit of her 
belly, remembering, trying to understand all that had happened.
As they had joined this stormy night, Er’ril had moved slowly, despite his 
raging passion. Her virginal blood had been spilled with a brief sharp pain, her 
cries captured between Er’ril’s lips. Then he had moved with a rhythm that she 
slowly rode to match, first hesitantly, then with a rising
I
passion of her own. The moment seemed endless, ageless, a wave that welled 
through her, then out in a cry of release and joy, an impossible blend of pain 
and pleasure. Er’ril met her cry with his own, thunder in her ears.
At that exact moment, a crack of lightning had shattered the world. Blinding 
light pierced through the small window, a lance of brilliance that cast 
everything in silver. Elena’s eyes had been closed at that moment, but somehow 
she saw everything in that burst of light: Er’ril poised over her, his face 
frozen in silver, his mouth open in a grimace of surprise and joy, his brow 
bunched with the same impossible mix of sensation.
And in that moment of brilliance, the world had shattered away around her. For a 
heartbeat, she was again lost in the silvery web of all living things. Her mind 
and body blew outward as she gasped in Er’ril’s arms. She heard a thousand 
voices, experienced all the sensations that the world entertained, saw sights 
from a million facets—too many to comprehend, but each as clear as a crystal 
bell. And in the center of the endless web, she sensed an immense presence turn 
slowly toward her. Cho had once warned her to stay away from this immensity. But 
now, riding on the waves of her own passion, she was both blown outward and 
drawn inward at the same time.
There seemed no escape.
Then the lightning across the sky shattered away, dying in an explosion of 
thunder that shook the very keel of the ship. Elena fell back into her body, 
back into her bed, back into Er’ril’s arms.
As Er’ril was released, too, he fell atop her, kissing her back to reality, 
Elena had been too stunned to speak of the moment. Tears flowed down her cheeks. 
She had been a breath away from being lost, destroyed in the very moment of 
their shared love.
Er’ril mistook her tears, kissing her as any lover might. “I love you,” he had 
whispered in her ear.
But the thousand voices of the web still echoed in her head, drowning out his 
words. She pulled him down to her. “Hold me,” she had whispered. “Don’t let go 
of me.”
He did just that, encircling her with his arms, wrapping her in his strong legs. 
She lay with him, breathing in the musky scent of his cooling skin, bathed in 
his breaths as they receded into a light slumber.
Now, alone with her thoughts and worries, she closed her eyes against the 
approach of morning as the ship rocked under her. Long ago, her journey had been 
heralded by the blood of her first menstra. She sensed
°
now, with the shedding of her virginal blood, that the end was near. The circle 
complete. First bleed to first blood…
Elena lay in Er’ril’s arms. With limbs tangled, the heat of their bodies blurred 
where one began and the other ended. Still, Elena had never felt more alone. The 
end of all neared, and according to Sisa’kofa, she would face it alone. But what 
would be the ultimate fate?
From blood to blood… where will it all end?
THE LONGEST NIGHT


Kast waited for Sy-wen to be dragged up from her cell below. From the deck of 
the Dragonsheart, he watched the gray hint of dawn glow to the east. Here in 
this strange sea of ice and fire, mists hung over the waters, while the sky 
remained a slate of dark clouds, a roil of smoke and storm. It was near 
impossible to tell night from day.
But despite the darkness, day was upon them.
Horns sounded in the distance, a call to arms. Sails snapped overhead. The 
gathered fleets were under way, headed toward Blackhall: the elv’in in the air, 
the Dre’rendi atop the sea, and the mer’ai below. The last great war was about 
to begin.
A scuffle sounded behind him. A hatch battered open. He turned to see Sy-wen 
carried between two Bloodriders, bound wrist and ankle. She kicked and spat and 
spouted curses. A crazed thing, she was dragged before him. While the larger war 
loomed, he faced his own first battle.
“We’ll eat your hearts!” she screamed at the guards. But when her eyes met his, 
she went quiet. A slow smile formed on her lips, cold and foul.
“Sy-wen,” he said, ignoring the evil before him. “It is time to wake Ragnar’k.”
She stared at him with eyes ablaze in madness. Since nearing the shadow of 
Blackhall, her ravings had worsened. She had scratched gouges in her own face, 
now scabbed and raw. Her lips were chewed bloody.
“Sy-wen…” His heart ached to see her hurt. He nodded to the men.
They unbound her wrists, and one of the guards forced her hand to Kast’s cheek. 
Her fingers were cold on his dragon tattoo, and nails dug at his skin. “She is 
lost!” A wail rose in her throat. “She is mine!”
Wit ch star
Kast ignored the lie. He would know if Sy-wen was truly gone. Two hearts beat in 
his chest: dragon and man, both bound to the mer’ai woman. He stared into the 
mad-bright eyes. “Sy-wen, come to me.”
Laughter pealed across the deck.
“Come to me… one more time.”
With the proximity to Blackhall, the tentacled simaltra had rooted deeper into 
her skull, but Kast needed Sy-wen to break free for only a moment. She had but 
to take control for a heartbeat and desire the transformation.
He closed his eyes and brought his hand up. He pushed aside the guard’s fingers, 
replacing the man’s hand with his own. He leaned his cheek against her palm, 
fingers lacing with hers. “Sy-wen, my love, my heart…” He was not ashamed to 
display such affection in front of the guards. He was beyond feigning the usual 
Dre’rendi stoicism. “One last time…”
Crawling fingers suddenly relaxed into his own. He felt a gentle warmth infuse 
the palm. “Stand back,” he warned the guards.
Suddenly released, Sy-wen fell into his arms. Her voice was a kitten newly born, 
a feeble mewl. “Kast…”
He opened his eyes and saw the woman he loved. He leaned to kiss her, but the 
magick ignited between them, driving them apart as a larger heart overtook his 
and swallowed him away. He tumbled into darkness, where his sensations blurred 
with those of the dragon.
But he kept a secret in his heart, the words spoken to him by Sheeshon. The 
dragon must die. That was his burden alone. He knew this was truly Sy-wen’s last 
flight. Once she returned to the Dragonsheart and released Kast from the dragon, 
he knew what he had to do. There was no way he could kill Ragnar’k—or rather, 
only one way.
In the coming siege upon the southern piers of the island, he would make sure 
his spilled blood did the most good. He would use his body and life to forge a 
path to the volcanic lair of the Dark Lord. Only by dying nobly in battle could 
he justify slaying Ragnar’k. As he died, so would the dragon inside.
His only regret was that he would be taking the one magick that freed Sy-wen 
from her dark prison. But in his heart, he knew she was near to being lost 
already; the monster in her skull swelled inexorably stronger. As he could not 
escape the fate of Ragnar’k, neither could she escape her own skull.
He sank into the darkness that was the dragon, resolute in his decision. This 
day I die.
Sy-wen leaned atop her dragon. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Free, her 
heart sang—but deeper inside, she despaired for Kast. For a glimmering moment 
she had touched him, felt his cheek on her palm, seen him leaning to kiss 
her—then in a whirlwind of scale and wing, he was gone, stolen away by an 
ancient spell. She could not balance the despair of his loss with the joy of her 
release. Her heart was a storm, her body convulsing with sobs.
Bonded, Ragnar’k sent gently to her, he is not lost to you. He is here with us.
Sy-wen patted her giant. They shared sensations, but the dragon could not reach 
the depths of her heart, nor understand the simple need of a woman for the touch 
of her lover. A caress could mean more than a thousand words, and a kiss was a 
chorus without end.
But all this was denied her. The pain was almost worse than the prison of her 
skull.
She lifted her face to the dark morning. Mists clung to the seas, masking all 
but the closest ships. Horns sounded over the waters. She took a deep breath. 
She knew her duty this day: to fly to the foul sandy shores of Blackhall and 
scout the defenses there. She would do her duty, then return to her prison, 
waiting to be summoned again if needed.
A voice called to her. She turned to find Master Edyll moving briskly toward her 
despite his cane. A pair of children trailed behind him: Sheeshon and Rodricko. 
“Sy-wen!” Master Edyll huffed in the icy morning. “A request!”
She smiled at the elder, both mentor and grandfather to her.
As he drew near, his brows knit together. “Child, are you all right?”
She wiped away the last of her tears. “You should be down below. We head into 
black seas.”
He frowned. “No place is safe this dread day. And I have a request while you’re 
out with the dragon.” Sheeshon came around his right side, the smaller Rodricko 
on his left. He patted Sheeshon on the head. “The children have heard of your 
flight and begged—or rather nagged with some urgency—that I take them to you.”
Sy-wen lifted an eyebrow. “What do they want?”
“Mayhaps they should tell you themselves.” Master Edyll guided Sheeshon ahead 
and rested his hands on her small shoulders. “Go on. Tell her.”
WIT C H 3 T A R
Sheeshon’s eyes were as wide as saucers as the dragon swung its head around to 
stare at the trio.
This child rode with us before, Ragnar’k sent to her. He sniffed noisily, which 
earned a squeak from Sheeshon. Rodricko backed farther into Master Edyll’s 
cloak.
“Fear not, little one,” Sy-wen said. “He won’t hurt you. What did you want to 
tell me?”
Sheeshon’s eyes never left the giant black dragon’s. “I… we… Roddie and I… we 
want you to take something to that volcano place.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure I can do that.”
Master Edyll interrupted. “Listen to the child first,” he urged her. He plucked 
Rodricko from the folds of his cloak and pushed the lad forward. Rodricko 
clutched a tiny sprig with a single flower in his small fingers. Sy-wen had 
heard the tale of the boy, how this thin stalk was his link to his tree back at 
the island. It was all that sustained him away from his bonded sapling.
As Rodricko joined her, Sheeshon straightened, clearly biting back her own fear 
in front of the boy. “We want you to take Roddie’s flower to the volcano.”
Rodricko did not seem so keen on this plan. He clutched the twig tight to his 
chest.
Sy-wen narrowed her eyes and glanced over the children to Master Edyll. “But 
Rodricko needs the flower’s magick. It keeps him alive.”
The answer came not from the elder, but from Sheeshon. “Roddie doesn’t need the 
flower now!” she said, waving her hands in childish frustration. “He bloodied 
his finger already. He won’t get sick until later.”
“Calm yourself,” Master Edyll warned the girl.
Sheeshon took a long breath, then let out a sigh. “The flower’s got to be put in 
the smoke. Papa says so.”
“I don’t want to give her my flower,” Rodricko mumbled.
Sheeshon swung on the boy. “You have to. We have to help Hunt.”
Rodricko scowled, but his lower lip trembled, near tears. “I still don’t want to 
give her my flower. It’s mine, not yours or hers. It’s mine only.”
Sy-wen stared over the bickering children. “Master Edyll, I really must be 
going.”
He nodded, pulling the squabbling children apart. “I know. But I think we should 
heed the girl. Sheeshon is rich in sea magicks, able to see what’s to come. Her 
dreams told her to bring Rodricko here, that somehow it will help Hunt.”
“I don’t see how…”
“I don’t either. But the child is bonded to the high keel’s son. Her abilities 
could be attuned to his fate. And since you’re heading to the island anyway—” He 
shrugged. “The risk is slight.”
Despite her doubts, Sy-wen allowed a glimmer of hope to root in her own heart. 
If there was a way to help Hunt, could it help her, too? She nodded slowly. 
“What am I supposed to do with the flower?”
Sheeshon set her lips in a serious line. “You have to wave the flower in the 
stinky smoke coming out of the ground. Like this!” She flapped an arm in the 
air.
Sy-wen glanced northward toward where a dull glow marked the volcanic peak. “Is 
that all?”
“That’s what my papa told me.”
Sy-wen turned back with a frown. “Your papa?”
Master Edyll dismissed her question with a shake of his head. “Her dreams.” He 
knelt beside Rodricko and spoke to the boy. “Will you let Sy-wen take your 
flower to the island?”
Rodricko shoved his lip out in a pout. “It’s my flower…”
He patted the boy’s cheek. “Of course. She’ll bring it back very soon. I 
promise.”
Sheeshon punched the boy in the arm. “Give it up, Roddie. Quit being such a 
baby!”
He riled up. “I’m not a baby!” He shoved the twig at the mer’ai elder. Master 
Edyll took it from his trembling fingers. “See!” Rodricko shouted back at 
Sheeshon. “I’m no baby!” The two glared at each other.
Master Edyll stepped carefully around the edge of the dragon’s folded wing to 
reach Sy-wen. He held out the small flowered stem. “Be careful.” As Ragnar’k 
watched, she took the broken branch, examining its heavy flower. The purple 
petals were folded over a fiery heart. She sensed no magick from it. Her eyes 
met Master Edyll’s. He must have read the doubt there.
He shrugged. “I know. It seems foolish. They’re just children. It could simply 
be some fantasy of Sheeshon’s. But still…” He glanced back to the two children.
“What?”
Master Edyll turned back to her. “Sheeshon knew you were going to the island 
this morning. How many know of this mission of yours?”
“Maybe she overheard someone speaking out of turn.”
Master Edyll cocked one eyebrow. “On a Bloodrider ship?” He sighed. “I don’t 
know. Perhaps you’re right. But it seems worth the risk.”
She nodded. “It is.” She tucked the woody stem into the waist of her trousers. 
“If there is any chance of helping Hunt—” And herself, she added silently. 
“—then it’s worth attempting.” Master Edyll backed away. “Be careful.”
Sy-wen took a deep breath. “I will.” She patted her dragon’s neck. “And I don’t 
go alone.”
The elder gathered the children and herded them back out of the way. Can we go? 
Ragnar’k asked irritably, snuffing at the gusty winds. She read the longing in 
his heart to fly free after being trapped inside Kast for so long.
Fly, my heart, fly.
The dragon’s joy sang through her as his legs sprang upward, driving them over 
the ship’s rail. Once clear, wings snapped wide and caught the morning winds.
Ragnar’k sailed skyward. Below, the sea was a mix of roiling steam and ice floes 
surrounded by cold fogs. Ragnar’k circled one of the boiling pools, taking 
advantage of the rising warm air. The pair swept up in a tight spiral.
From her vantage, Sy-wen spied upon the hundreds of sails flowing northward, 
gliding through the morning mists like the fins of pale sharks. Overhead, the 
glowing keels of the elv’in fleet shone around her, small suns in the fog. The 
captain of the nearest ship spotted them and waved.
She acknowledged him with a salute of her own. Then they were banking away, 
heading northward themselves. Ragnar’k climbed above the roll of fog. The gray 
morning turned a shade brighter, but the slate of clouds still dampened the sun 
to a meager glow. Bad mountain, Ragnar’k sent in a rumble.
Sy-wen stared ahead. Above the fog bank, the vistas stretched wide in all 
directions—but to the north, the world ended at a monstrous peak of black rock. 
It rose out of the mists, stretching toward the cloud banks, belching smoke from 
its central cone in a roiling column. Vents in its side also spewed black smoke, 
smaller snakes hissing at the fringes. Red fires blazed across the black cliffs 
and slopes. Some were from natural fissures and lava tubes exposing the molten 
heart of the foul mountain. Others glowed from the torchlight within tunneled 
openings: windows, balconies, and sentry posts. It was said that the chambers 
within the hollowed-out mountain numbered in the thousands.
Yet despite its menace and horrible history, there was an undeniable majesty to 
the peak, with its smoke-shrouded cliffs. Even the edges of the

cone were broken into towers and crenellated battlements. From the fractured 
shapes, it was difficult to judge what was created naturally and what was carved 
by dark magick and monstrous claws.
Sy-wen glided northward, heralded by drums and horn, into the heat that 
shimmered off the peak. It was not the clean heat of the Archipelago’s sun, but 
the sick swelter of a fever. Even the air reeked—not just of brimstone, but of 
something more foul, meat left to rot. Her stomach lurched. Below, the blanket 
of mists and ice fog began to break apart. The seas below appeared again: dark 
waters, flat and still. As she flew, she soon distanced herself from the last of 
the ships, leaving the fleet behind her.
Keep high, she warned her mount, now that they ventured alone into the heart of 
the enemy’s territory. Ragnar’k swept up the steamy air, gliding, barely 
shifting his wings, keeping his movements to a minimum to draw less attention. 
But the seas below remained empty, not a single ship in sight.
Where were the Dark Lord’s forces?
The pair swept onward, crossing the ring of shoals that encircled the island. 
The tall jagged ridge of reefs was named the Crown of Blackhall. The reef 
surrounded the peak, a full league from its black sand shores, an impenetrable 
sea wall as high as the castle walls of A’loa Glen. The jagged ramparts were 
only open through one narrow break in the rocky shoals. Beyond the ridge, a 
giant lagoon surrounded the island.
There was only one way to spy what lay within—and that was the reason for this 
mission. The elv’in ships were too slow to risk such close surveillance. It was 
up to her and Ragnar’k to scout it out.
The pair swept over the Crown and peered down into the lagoon. Sy-wen frowned. 
It lay as empty as the seas beyond. An elaborate set of docks jutted into the 
lagoon from the southern slopes, with a hundred piers and jetties; it took a 
constant run of ships and supplies to feed and outfit a city of this size. But 
the dockworks lay abandoned. Not a single ship, not even a skiff, was tied to 
the piers. Not a soul moved.
Despite the heat from the peak, a chill shivered over Sy-wen’s skin.
Beyond the docks, a small township skirted the peak’s slope, servicing the 
deckhands and sailors of the supply ships. Though many found it profitable to do 
business here, a great number feared to set foot within Blackhall proper. So 
inns, brothels, trading shops, and other enterprises sprouted like barnacles 
along the rocky shore between the docks and the Southern Gate. But even here the 
tangle of streets and alleyways was deserted.
Where was everyone?
Since the allies had cut supply lines to the island as soon as they entered 
these waters, many ships should have been trapped here. The township should have 
been full of people.
Beyond the crude town, the Southern Gate yawned above the dock-works: a fissure 
that went a quarter of the way up the mountainside. It was dark. No glow from 
the vents, lava tubes, or windows broke the gloom under the gate. No bars or 
obstructions closed off the passage into the heart of Blackhall. It was open, 
waiting for them. Can you get closer? she urged the dragon. Bonded, I would be 
away from here.
“As would I, my giant. But we must discover a hint of what ambush awaits the 
fleet.” And Sy-wen had no doubt that a trap was set here. Blackhall was a woman 
lying with her legs spread wide. But what disease was she carrying? Where was 
the hidden dagger?
/ will try to fly closer, Ragnar’k said, his usual bravado gone. His tension 
flowed into her.
The dragon tilted on a wingtip and dropped in a plummeting dive toward the 
dockworks and the open gate beyond. He did not slow as the winds howled past 
Sy-wen’s ears. Ragnar’k clearly wanted to make a fast pass, nothing more. He 
also maintained the momentum of his fall, ready to use its power to speed a 
quick escape if necessary.
They skimmed over the scrabble of portside buildings and swept toward the 
Southern Gate. The fissure into the heart of Blackhall lay dark, towering over 
them. It had to be a quarter league wide at its base, scaling four times that in 
height.
As they swept toward the opening, a low droning reached through the wind’s howl, 
drumming deep into her chest. It came from beyond the arched threshold, flowing 
forth in shivering waves. Ragnar’k began to bank away, buffeted by the sound. 
No, she sent him. A little closer.
He obeyed, and they flew into the teeth of the droning. It battered at them like 
a physical wind. Sy-wen’s head soon ached from the sound, and other sounds grew 
muffled.
But deeper inside her skull, something stirred. Strange sensations bloomed. For 
a fleeting moment, she smelled kelpweed flowers; then flashes of color swam 
across her vision; then she heard singing, an old lullaby from her mother, even 
as she felt a familiar stroke across her breast, Kast’s touch.
She gasped as the panoply of sensations rode through her. She knew the source of 
her inner storm—it came from the lurker in her skull, writhing with the droning 
from without.
My bonded… ? The dragon’s flight faltered.
Steady, she sent her mount. She would not let the simaltra distract her from her 
goal. She strained to see what lay beyond the gloom of the gate, but the 
darkness was complete. She knew that she dared go no closer. But as she began to 
order Ragnar’k away, that darkness rippled. At first she thought it a trick of 
her eyes, but she was not sure. She concentrated, trying to pierce the shroud. 
If she could only see beyond…
Bonded! Beware! The dragon’s vision swept over her own, sharpening and 
crystallizing her eyesight.
Then she saw it, too, and terror clutched her heart. Away! she screamed to her 
mount.
The dragon needed no further prodding. Ragnar’k swept upward in a tight spiral. 
As he spun toward the distant heights, the pressure fell from her shoulders. 
Sy-wen glanced back toward the opening, staring with her newly opened eyes. The 
lurker did not hide within the darkness under the gate—it was the darkness. She 
watched the blackness ripple again. It was smooth-skinned, filling the monstrous 
gate from base to pinnacle, a slick of oil poured into the hole, jamming it 
tight.
As they fled, she sensed the creature staring back at her, ancient and malignant 
and aware.
“Hurry,” she gasped into the wind.
Then they were past the fissure and flying over volcanic black stone. Sy-wen 
clutched her dragon. She appreciated her mount’s solidness after seeing what 
filled the gate below. The fleet had to be warned.
Bac’t to the ship!
Ragnar’k banked on a wingtip and swept down the southeastern slopes of the peak, 
keeping away from the southern port and the sentinel looming over it. Sy-wen 
found she could breathe again. She hugged tight to her dragon as he glided past 
smoking cracks and glowing fissures.
Only then did she remember her other duty. She straightened and slipped 
Rodricko’s flowered twig from her waistband. She had promised to wave it within 
the smoke coming off the peak. Sy-wen considered abandoning this goal, but she 
spotted a tumble of boulders near the base of the slope, where smoke plumed up 
in a spiraling font. It was in their direct path.
Ragnar’k,, aim for the smoke ahead. She sent her desire to him.
Wi’t ch Star
He grumbled his assent, following her silent directions. His neck flaps 
tightened to her ankles as he flipped sideways. He glided at an angle, intending 
to brush near the dark column. Sy-wen stretched her arm as far as it would 
reach—they dared not enter the sick smoke itself. Not only might it scorch with 
flaming ash, but there was no telling what dread magicks rode that dark current.
Sy-wen thrust the twig near the spouting smoke. Wind whipped her hair. She felt 
the heat given off by the dark gases, but she kept her arm out. Only a glancing 
brush, she promised herself; then they’d be away.
Her private thought was acknowledged by the dragon. With infinite skill, 
Ragnar’k brought them near the smoke—close enough for her to reach with her 
fingers, but out of the column itself.
She held the flower as they banked past the plume. Her hand disappeared into the 
smoke. The heat struck her immediately—as if she had shoved her fist into a 
roaring hearth. But worst of all, the burn raged up her arm and exploded inside 
her head, taking her sight with it.
Blind now, she felt the dragon lurch beneath her. They tumbled through the air. 
Gasping, she curled over her wounded hand.
Then they struck the ground—hard.
Jarred by the impact, Sy-wen flew through the air until her shoulder struck 
something coarse yet yielding. She tumbled to a skidding stop. Her sight slowly 
returned to her. She pushed to her knees. Sand… blacky sand…
She lifted her head, but nausea swept through her. She lurched forward as her 
stomach clenched violently. Bile splattered from her mouth and nose. She stayed 
hunched for an impossibly long time as her entire body became a tightened fist. 
The flow of gore streamed out of her. She tasted blood on the back of her 
tongue, but still her body remained clamped. She teetered above a pit of 
blackness.
Then at last she was released. Like a bowstring pulled too far and snapped, she 
fell, gasping and choking, to the sand. It took her several breaths to get her 
vision back. First, it was like staring through the single lens of a spyglass. 
The world had shrunk to a narrow tunnel. All she saw was a dark strand of sand, 
the lap of water, scuttling crabs. Dragging up to an elbow, she blinked, and 
slowly the view widened.
She spotted Ragnar’k a short way down the beach, sprawled half in the shallows 
of the lagoon. “Ragnar’k!” she called in a hoarse wheeze.
He lay limp in the green waters, not moving, not breathing.
Dead, her heart rang out. She felt it in her gut and knew it to be true As if 
sensing her grief, the ground shook under her feet, an ominous rumble.
She forced herself to her knees. “Ragnar’k!” Her cry echoed over the empty 
stretch of beach and up the unforgiving slopes of Blackhall. She was alone.
As THE SUN’S FIRST GLOW BRIGHTENED THE MORNING, TVrTJS STOOD WITH HIS
men and the d’warf general atop a granite cliff head. Below them, the Stone 
Forest tumbled down to the sea as if seeking to drown itself in the gray-green 
waters. But stretching out from this coast in a single arched span was a 
volcanic causeway that connected island to forest. It was their goal, a road 
straight to the Northern Gate.
Through a spyglass, Tyrus searched the volcanic peak. It had been the silent 
giant in their midst since they entered the Stone Forest, glowing through the 
night with balefire and spouts of molten rock. Now they faced the jaws of the 
giant, open and waiting for them.
The Northern Gate was a monstrous cavern opening, a pocked wound in the side of 
the mountain, darker than the black stone that framed it. The arch of stone—the 
Black Road, as it was named—leaned out toward them like a foul tongue.
He lowered his spyglass, his brows pinched. Why were the road and gate 
unguarded? What trap awaited them?
Tyrus glanced back to the d’warf army, three thousand strong. Covered in ash 
from head to toe, the columns and lines of d’warves still appeared to be stone. 
But small movements belied this rocky appearance: the shift of a shield, fingers 
curling on a sword hilt, the glint of narrowed eyes.
A voice drew his attention forward. “There is no way to assault Black-hall by 
surprise,” Wennar said. “If they don’t know we’re here already, they will as 
soon as we hit the Black Road.”
Blyth ran a hand over his bald pate. “We’ll be exposed on that long road all the 
way to the island.”
“We have no choice,” Tyrus mumbled. “Xin has sent word—the fleet moves even now 
toward the southern piers. We must divide Blackhall’s attention. It is our only 
hope.”
Wennar grunted his agreement.
“Ready your forces,” Tyrus commanded. “We’ll do as we practiced.”
Wennar nodded, but Tyrus read the fear in his eyes. “I pray the gift you were 
granted will be enough,” the d’warf said.
It’ll have to be, Tyrus thought to himself. He studied the spread of d’warf 
soldiers. All knew their duties, knew the death they faced, knew that their 
lives would soon be in his hands. He stared down at his gloved fingers. He 
prayed they were strong enough to hold so much. How much simpler to be a pirate, 
where your men knew they’d die bloody and soon. Today so many lives, the lives 
of good men with families and futures, depended on him. Could he be the prince 
they needed?
Wennar sounded his horn, and the march began. Ash choked up from the shuffle of 
a thousand boots. The d’warf army split around the cliff head, like a river 
around a boulder, and descended the slopes toward the Black Road. With a wave, 
Wennar descended into the flow, joining his lieutenants, calling out last 
orders.
Hurl stepped to Tyrus’ side, staring out at the stream of armored d’warves. “The 
Magus would have been proud,” the Northerner mumbled. “Just pray that granite is 
strong enough to resist what will be thrown at us this day.” Tyrus turned to the 
others. Fletch was already mounted on his small horse, a brown mare to match his 
bronzed skin. Two quivers of arrows were crossed on his back.
Blyth brought up two more horses. They were all mares, stocky but small. Hill 
horses, Hurl had named them, buying them from a wary-eyed farmer before entering 
the Stone Forest.
Tyrus climbed into his saddle, as did Blyth and Hurl. Only Sticks remained on 
his feet. The hill horses, though stocky, were too small to bear the giant’s 
form—if he sat astride them, his feet would drag the ground. Instead, he would 
keep up as best he could on foot.
Tyrus studied his fellow pirates atop the cliff. He weighed them with his eyes. 
They remained steady, survivors of many sea battles. “Into the teeth of darkness 
we now go,” he said to them stiffly. “I would think no one a coward to turn back 
now.”
They stared back at him. Finally, Blyth laughed. Hurl rolled his eyes and 
slapped Fletch’s knee. Fletch flashed a rare grin. Together they turned their 
horses toward Blackhall. Sticks followed after them.
Blyth walked his horse beside Tyrus‘. “Captain, we’re pirates. We’ve walked the 
dark path since we were suckling babes.” He waved toward Blackhall. “We wouldn’t 
miss the chance to join this fight for all the gold in Port Rawl.”
Tyrus found a grim smile rise to his own face. Perhaps he had been wrong 
earlier. Maybe this was a day for pirates, not princes.
And that was fine by him.
Together, the five of them trundled down the hill in the middle of the d’warf 
brigade. Already the forefront of the d’warf army had reached the edge of the 
Black Road. They stopped, awaiting the final command. The other d’warves closed 
ranks behind them.
Wennar appeared out of the throng. “At your word, Lord Tyrus.”
Standing in his stirrups, Tyrus stared down the length of the black span to the 
peak beyond. This close, it seemed the world itself ended at that wall of 
volcanic stone. Spouts of smoke snaked up from cracks and fissures, joining the 
monstrous plume from the cone, blackening the sky.
Tyrus took a steadying breath. “Let it begin.”
At his side, Wennar lifted a horn and sounded a sharp note.
With scarcely a pause, the d’warf army mounted the road. The archway was barely 
wide enough for more than two wagons to pass. Below, the waters were jagged with 
spears of rock and broken shoals. Death awaited a misstep along the thin span.
In rows of four, the d’warves marched forward, moving swiftly. Column after 
column followed. Off to the sides, a cadre of other d’warves, armed with 
spyglasses, watched the waters, the skies, and the peak beyond for any response 
to their approach. They held horns that curled to their armored shoulders, ready 
to sound the alarm.
Wennar stood at the edge of the road, nodding to his fellow soldiers, calling 
out good-natured gibes, patting an occasional d’warf on the shoulder. And still 
the columns flowed down from the Stone Forest. Not a single soldier broke the 
steady tread. Slaves for centuries, they were determined at long last to bring 
their pain and suffering to the door of their former master.
On they marched, four abreast, a flow of armor.
Tyrus shifted in his saddle, the hairs on his neck prickling. Time stretched as 
the sun, cloaked in slate-gray clouds, climbed the sky. Soldier after soldier 
streamed past, unwavering. The front of the army was near to halfway across the 
arch when a sharp, brittle note shattered the tread of the army.
A horn… then another horn… and another.
Tyrus swung around, sighing out the breath he had been holding all morning. From 
the peak, a pale mist rose from a thousand cubbies and windows and holes. He 
yanked out his spyglass and quickly focused on the threat.
Through the glass, he watched the rise of pale shapes, winged aloft. They were 
easy to pick out against the black stone: bony wings and clawed appendages. Even 
from this distance, their forms promised venom and death.
Tyrus lowered his glass and counted the pale army banking down to defend the 
Black Road: hundreds, if not thousands.
“Skal’tum,” Wennar said.
Tyrus knew that with the sun covered by heavy clouds, the creatures would be 
protected by their dark magicks, impervious to normal weapons. Still, he had 
anticipated such a scenario. The d’warf weapons had been tainted with skal’tum 
blood, collected after the War of the Isles. Such treatment would allow their 
blades to pierce the beasts’ dark protections.
One thing was not known, nor tested fully.
He glanced to the men around him. He got the nods he wanted.
Tyrus kicked forward, breaking into the column of d’warves. The army had frozen 
at the sound of the first horn. Across the volcanic span, the d’warves on the 
road had taken up their assigned positions.
Of the four in each row, the outer pair of d’warves faced the empty air, each 
shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor, spears thrust up and out, shields raised 
overhead and back, touching the raised shield of his partner on the far side. 
Under this archway of raised shields, the inner pairs of d’warves crouched, 
ready to act.
Tyrus slid off his horse, peeling back his gloves with his teeth. He spat them 
on the ground, then crossed to the nearest d’warf, who headed the column of 
shield men on the road’s right side. He saw the fear in the d’warf soldier, a 
young fellow, new to his armor.
Without flinching, Tyrus met his eyes, trying to instill faith, though the 
youngster trembled a notch, his raised spear jittering.
Tyrus lifted his right hand and brought it to the d’warf’s exposed wrist. From 
their past trials, skin-to-skin contact worked best, though it wasn’t necessary.
Wennar spoke at his shoulder. “The skal’tum come!”
Tyrus glanced skyward as the flock dove toward the Black Road and the waiting 
army. Shrieking cries echoed off the water, singing the promise of a bloody 
death.
With a steadying sigh, Tyrus gripped the young d’warf’s wrist. He closed his 
eyes and touched the granite inside him, unfettering the magick granted to him 
by the Magus. It was easy to cast, harder to keep in check, and almost 
impossible to call back.
Now he let it go.
The petrifying magick welled out and into the d’warf in his grip. He watched the 
man’s wrist go to dark granite, then rush over the rest of his body, turning 
flesh, armor, and weapons into stone. The magick did not stop there, but spread 
to his neighbor, who stood shoulder to shoulder, and continued down the line of 
d’warves, one after the other, turning the entire line to stone—a solid wall of 
granite. He fed more and more of his magick into the line, swelling it with 
petrifying energy.
With nowhere else to go, the magick leaped across the raised shields to flow 
down the other side, petrifying the column of d’warves posted on the left side, 
too.
“Hurry!” Wennar warned.
Tyrus fed a last bolt of energy, prayed it was enough, and broke contact. He 
fell back gasping, weak in the knees. Before him lay a long tunnel of granite, a 
passage composed of living statues. Within the tunnel, the remaining d’warves 
huddled.
“Here they come!” Wennar shouted.
Stumbling back, Tyrus watched as the skal’tum struck the road, screaming a 
dreadful cry. But they struck only stone. Many impaled themselves on the festoon 
of granite spears, crying out and writhing in agony. The more cautious were 
still blocked by the packed stone soldiers, unable to reach those shielded 
inside the passage. Claws raked and screams echoed, but the tunnel held.
From within, the huddled d’warves leaped up and jabbed spears at the skal’tum, 
poking between their stone brothers. Shrieks of blood lust turned to cries of 
surprise and pain. With careful aim, others shot arrows between the cracks in 
the shields, striking with cold efficiency, plucking skal’tum from the skies 
like a rabble of crows.
Sticks appeared with Tyrus’ horse. “We should hurry; the trick will not last 
long!” The giant offered a hand to Tyrus.
He almost reached to take his friend’s hand, then saw the black tint to his own 
fingers. “No!” he said hoarsely—he dared not be touched yet. The petrifying 
magick was still ripe in him. Clenching his lips, he concentrated and choked 
back the magick. Stone slowly—too slowly—turned to flesh. It took all his will 
and constant vigilance to keep the magick in check; it was as much a curse as a 
boon.
With the magick secured for the moment, he mounted.
Wennar lifted a horn, and a piercing blast burst through the morning, sounding 
the next stage of the assault. He glanced up to Tyrus and his men. “May the 
Mother protect you!”
“And you and yours,” Tyrus replied ritually.
With the alarm raised, the d’warves inside the passage abandoned their attacks 
on the skal’tum and raced forward toward Blackhall, running under the shields of 
their brothers. They moved with surprising speed.
Tyrus kicked his horse after them, leading his men down the living
Wi i’ch Star tunnel. “Keep your heads down and your arms close to you!” he 
commanded as they entered the stone passage. “I’ll be sending more petrifying 
magick into the tunnel, and you won’t know when, so don’t let your mares brush 
the shield wall.”
“And risk being a statue again?” Blyth said. “Not likely. There’s only one part 
of my body I want turned to hard stone, and that’s only when I’m back in one of 
Port Rawl’s brothels.”
The quip earned a guffaw from Sticks, who kept pace behind the horses, his head 
ducked from the arch of raised shields. Wennar led the remaining d’warf army 
into the passage after them.
Another horn sounded from far ahead. Tyrus sighed with relief. It was the signal 
he had been waiting for.
He reached a hand out and touched the wall on the right, casting a fresh jolt of 
energy into the granite. His senses raced with his magick down the line to the 
end of the tunnel. There, as the horn blast indicated, new guards had joined 
their brothers, taking up their posts, shoulder to shoulder. The new magick 
swept over them and petrified the newcomers, extending the reach of the tunnel a 
few spans closer to the dread mountain.
Tyrus also felt the sick touch of the unfortunate skal’tum who happened to be 
perched or touching the magick-wrought passage. They, too, were petrified into 
granite, caught in the spell. A few became a part of the tunnel, grotesque 
statuary. Others, wings now stone, fell to shatter on the rocky shoals below.
Tyrus broke contact, a tight smile on his lips. Time shrank to a shining moment 
of the present as he raced on, careful to keep his hands clear of his mount.
Cries reached him—both beast and d’warf. Claws scrabbled at him from cracks in 
the tunnel. But he pulled his sword and hacked at any that drew too near. His 
steel blade went to stone at some point, but he could not say when. Poisoned 
blood, green and noxious, steamed along its length.
And still they raced down the tunnel, chased by screams. His horse sweated under 
him, whinnying with fear. It sidestepped bodies, soldiers poisoned black by the 
venomous claws of monsters, and fled onward. There was no retreat.
Then distantly another horn sounded, and Tyrus reached out again with his 
magick. Black fingers brushed stone. Petrifying energy lanced out. Bit by bit, 
the living tunnel snaked down the Black Road’s span, its creep relentless.
Still, Tyrus was not so fooled by their success as to be emboldened. They fled 
straight toward the looming mountain of dread evils: Blackhall.
A part of him knew they faced their own doom, but he could not help smiling, 
showing his teeth. He was a pirate after all.
Sy-wen stumbled across the sandy beach toward the prone form of her dragon. 
Tears flowed. “Ragnar’k!” she called futilely, knowing the dragon was gone—and 
with him, the man she loved. Her bare feet were cut by the glass-sharp rocks. 
She ignored the pain, barely felt the burn of salt in the wounds as she splashed 
through the shallows.
“Ragnar’k!” she cried again, her heart bursting.
Then a miracle—a single claw responded. Then his head lolled in the shallows as 
he tried to shift…
Her heart surged. Still alive!
Sy-wen stumbled to him, splashing into the deeper waters. The cold of the sea 
snapped her somewhat back to herself. She stopped with an arm raised toward the 
dragon as a horrible understanding dawned. She was not touching him… yet he 
remained a dragon!
She fought against a rising panic. Then she remembered when a similar strange 
circumstance had occurred before. Shortly before the War of the Isles, Ragnar’k 
had been struck by lightning in a fierce storm and horribly wounded. Until 
cured, he had remained in dragon form, even when she wasn’t touching him.
Surely the same was happening now.
Ragnar’k lifted his head, wobbly on its long neck. Dark eyes stared down at her.
Sy-wen… ?
The name filled her head, a familiar touch, but it was not Ragnar’k. “Kast!” She 
rushed to the dragon’s side. “What happened?”
As her palm touched the heated scales, the world blew out in a whirl of wing and 
smoke. In a matter of heartbeats, Kast stood before her in the shallows, her 
palm on his tattoo.
He stood naked, looking down on her, his face wide with surprise. “Sy-wen, 
what—?”
Startled, she pulled her hand down. As her fingers left his skin, the magick 
flared again. She fell into the waters, buffeted back by magick as the dragon 
reappeared, crouched before her, chest heaving, wings wide in shock.
Sy-wen’s brow bunched. What was happening?
The dragon’s head swung toward her. “Kast?” she asked tentatively. Yes, it’s me, 
the answer came to her.
She reached toward the steaming snout. “Where’s Ragnar’k? Was he injured by the 
fall from the sky?”
The dragon shook his head in a very human way. No. I don’t sense him
within me at all.
“Are you sure? Maybe he was knocked out.”
Sy-wen. The voice was Kast’s usual stern firmness. I’ve lived with the dragon 
inside me for over two winters. He is not here. He is gone. Sy-wen covered her 
mouth. “How?” Touch me, he commanded, extending his neck.
She swallowed back her panic and reached her hand again to the opalescent black 
scales. She closed her eyes, but still she felt the rush of magick, a flushing 
from crown to toe. by-wen r
She opened her eyes. Kast stood before her again, her palm on his cheek. He 
grabbed her hand before she could take it away. “Hold tight,” he warned. “I 
think the mer’ai spell has somehow reversed itself. Now your touch calls me out 
of the dragon rather than sending me in it. Don’t let go.”
She moved to lean against him. She had no problem with this last command. She 
never wanted to let him go.
“What happened?” he asked.
In his arms, she told the story of their flight, the empty dockworks, and the 
lurker in the gate. “We were on our way back to the ship.”
“Is that all?”
Sy-wen shook her head. “No. Sheeshon’s flower…” She glanced to the beach. In the 
black sand, the purple-and-crimson blossom lay in the sand where she had fallen. 
“Rodricko’s flower. Sheeshon had a dream that it had to be bathed in the smoke 
off the mountain.”
“Why?” Kast frowned.
“I don’t know—something to do with helping Hunt. Master Edyll believed it 
important, maybe prophecy. And since we were headed here anyway…” She covered 
her face with a hand. “We shouldn’t have attempted it.” She explained about the 
dragon’s last flight, the burn of the smoke, the tumble from the sky.
Kast walked with her out of the shallows, hand in hand like any two lovers 
strolling a beach. He plucked the flower from the black sand.
Sy-wen expected to find the flower a singed ruin, but the purple petals
J
had peeled back to its fiery heart. The flower now glowed like a coal from a 
fresh fire. “It’s bloomed,” she said, surprised.
Kast seemed less shocked. His eyes were on her own, his brow wrinkled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You… You’re not possessed.”
She blinked, and then his words sank to her heart. In her panic over Ragnar’k, 
she had failed to notice the end of the simaltra’s possession. She touched her 
forehead in wonder. She was still herself. She searched inside her mind for the 
malignant presence of the tentacled beast. Where before it had been a palpable 
darkness behind her eyes, icy and cold, now she felt nothing. How could that be? 
She stared up into her lover’s suspicious eyes. “It’s gone. I don’t feel it 
inside me.”
Her words did little to dismiss the doubt in Kast’s gaze.
“I remember the pain from the smoke. We both tumbled. When I hit, I felt so 
dreadfully sick.” She crossed to the soiled section of the sand, drawing Kast 
with her. Amid the blood and bile, an oily skin lay like a wrinkled snake’s 
shedding. Kast used the end of the branch to fish it out. He plopped it down and 
teased out the tentacles.
It was the simaltra… or what was left of it.
“I truly am free,” she cried. A joyous tide surged in her heart. Free! She 
stared up at Kast as he rose to his feet. Her relief and happiness must have 
been plain, too bright to doubt any longer.
He swung her into his arms, hugging the breath from her. “You’re mine again,” he 
mumbled into her hair. His body shuddered against hers as he allowed himself to 
believe.
After a moment, Sy-wen pulled away enough to speak. “But what of Ragnar’k ?”
Kast stared back at the smoky column. “I’m not sure, but Sheeshon warned me of 
something—she said I’d have to slay Ragnar’k, that he would eventually pose a 
risk to the world.”
Sy-wen jolted with his words, almost breaking from his arms. “Why would she say 
that?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t either.” Kast studied the smoky trail in the sky. “The 
magick from the mountain’s heart must be able to suck a foreign essence from a 
body. It drew the simaltra from you, leaving only the skin that you later 
expelled. It must also have drawn Ragnar’k out of me, leaving only the dragon’s 
skin behind. But the spell tattooed into my flesh somehow keeps his skin alive, 
allowing the transformation to continue.”
“But without the dragon inside…”
“It’s just an empty skin,” Kast finished, kicking sand over the slimy tentacles.
“Not empty,” she argued, reaching to his cheek. “It still has a heart…
your heart.“
He sighed and faced the rising curl of smoke. “Ragnar’k rose from the stone 
heart of A’loa Glen in a smoky cloud. Now smoke draws him away, perhaps to the 
very heart of Blackhall.”
She heard the worry in his voice. “You fear he’ll be twisted by the magick 
here?”
“Ragnar’k is a spirit of pure elemental magick, the clay from which the Dark 
Lord sculpts his ill’guard creations. I fear what the fiend could do with the 
dragon’s energy.” He circled Sy-wen with his arms again. “Back at A’loa Glen, 
the whole purpose in seeding the ebon’stone eggs had been to capture Ragnar’k. 
And now we’ve delivered him to the very doorstep of the Dark Lord.”
Sy-wen mumbled into his chest. “Then we’ve traded my freedom for the dragon’s.”
Kast tightened his arms. “Don’t speak that way. It is the Mother’s blessing that 
you are free. There was no trade.”
Sy-wen leaned against Kast’s chest, the joy in her heart soured. “Either way,” 
she finally mumbled, “we must return to the Dragonsheart to let them know of the 
trap and of what has befallen us here—and to return Rodricko’s flower before he 
falls ill from its absence.”
He nodded and stepped back. “Then I must fly us home.”
Sy-wen shook her head, catching his hand. “No. I can’t ride back with
you.“
Kast’s brows pinched.
“You forget, my touch will pull you back into a man,” she explained.
“You have to go without me.”
“And leave you here?”
“I’ll hide,” she promised. “The news you bear is too important. And Rodricko 
will need his flower. I’ll stay here until you return.”
Kast glanced around, clearly searching for another answer. He found none. His 
eyes settled back to hers, unsure.
“You must,” she said simply, putting all her courage in her voice.
“But I’ll still be a dragon when I reach the ship.”
“You’ll find a way to pass on the message. Carve the planks with your
claw if you must.“
“I only just got you back,” he whispered.
She lifted his hand and kissed it. “Deliver the warning. Let the fleet prepare 
to battle the beast in the gate. While they do that, you return here with Hunt 
so we can free him. I’ll be safe. Now that I’m free, I’ll never be enslaved 
again.”
Kast’s eyes were still narrowed with worry, but he nodded.
“You’d best hurry.” She began to pull away, but he drew her back into an iron 
embrace.
“I’ll not miss this chance,” he whispered, then bent and kissed her.
Sy-wen sighed between his lips. It had been too long. She melted into his warm 
lips, tasting the salt and his breath. Her heart ached and in this moment, she 
could not hide her own fear. In this kiss, she drew what strength she could from 
the steel in his arms, the firmness of his lips, the coarse stubble of his 
cheek. She drew all she could from him.
But it could not last forever. With tears in her eyes, she broke their embrace, 
pushing him away. “Go…” Before I never let you go, she added from her heart.
He stepped back, arms outstretched, only their fingers touching. His face was 
flushed, balanced between duty and love.
“Go,” she repeated.
“Be safe,” he commanded.
She nodded, not trusting her voice any longer.
His fingers dropped from hers. Magick blasted outward, kicking up a small eddy 
of sand. A moment later, the dragon reappeared on the strand of beach, silver 
claws dug deep into the black sand. Sy-wen stepped forward and retrieved 
Rodricko’s flower. She placed it before the dragon.
“Fly swiftly,” she whispered.
Kast stared at her through a dragon’s eyes as tears flowed down her face. Then 
he gently collected the flower between his teeth and spread his wings. I’ll 
return soon. The silent promise filled her heart and mind. Then with a bounding 
leap, he flung his body into the air. His flight was not as smooth as when 
Ragnar’k controlled the dragon, but apparently the blending of the two over the 
past winters had given Kast some ability. After a slight bumbling, he was off, 
flying over the jagged Crown to the seas beyond the shoals.
She watched him, a fist clutched to her heart.
Under her feet, the ground shook again, this time more violently. The smooth 
waters of the lagoon rippled. Sy-wen turned from the skies to examine the peak 
behind her. Gouts of smoke belched from the fissures, and fires spouted from the 
distant cone with a horrendous roar.
°
Sy-wen had never felt so alone. She looked to the dwindling form of the dragon, 
watching until he disappeared, then sank to her knees in the black sand.
She had thought herself free, but now she shrank from the enormity of the black 
cone and molten fires. She stared toward the misty horizons.
Keep your promise, my love. Return to me soon.
Elena clutched the rails of the Windsprite as storm winds buffeted the ship. The 
deck pitched under her, rolling a wider view of the landscape below. Columns of 
og’res trudged through the mud and deadfall of the blasted orchards, advancing 
in a solid line toward the pit. Steam rose, drifting up from the deep coal fires 
buried in the debris. Neither the fierceness of the past night’s storm nor the 
morning’s steady downpour could drown these last reminders of the orchard’s 
fiery destruction.
“They’re making good progress,” Er’ril said at her side.
“So far,” Elena agreed. “But the day has just begun.” She huddled within her 
eelskin cloak, rain slicking off her. One hand settled to the rose-carved pommel 
of her blood sword, seeking the reassurance of its elemental steel. Since the 
battle at the Spirit Gate, she kept the sword belted at her side—a dull ache, a 
constant reminder of her responsibilities.
Below, birds of every shape swept through the rain, keeping pace with the giants 
on the ground. Only a few scouts of the si’luran army delved deeper toward the 
pit.
Elena studied their goal.
The excavation had gone strangely quiet during the night. The continual column 
of smoke had been extinguished or been swamped by the rain. Only a deep mist 
hung over the pit, like steam on a mug of hot kaffee. It lay thick, obscuring 
all, stirring in a slow eddy. The sight was more ominous than the furious 
smoking of yesterday.
The ship rolled again, pulling her vision back toward the skies. The clouds 
remained low, heavy with rain. Day was upon them, but it was impossible to say 
exactly where true night ended and morning began. The world had become a 
continual twilight.
“We should keep belowdecks,” Er’ril urged her. “We’ve sentinels in the crow’s 
nest. At the first sign of trouble, the horns will sound.”
Then they should be sounding already, she thought. The very air reehs of 
trouble. But she allowed herself to be guided back toward the deck hatch. When 
it opened, she found Joach standing there. She startled back for half a 
heartbeat before recognizing him. He waved them out of the rain with his staff. 
“We’ve assembled all the gear in the ship’s stern hold,” he said. “Packs with 
extra ropes, climbing tackle, torches, oil pots. Everyone’s seen to their 
personal weapons and needs. We’re ready for the descent into the pit.”
Er’ril nodded, shaking out his cloak. “I’d like to inspect it myself.” He turned 
to Elena. “Why don’t you and your brother warm yourselves in the galley? I’ll be 
right back.”
Joach backed out of the way for Er’ril to pass, then stared strangely at Elena. 
“El… you and Er’ril…”
Elena turned her back on her brother, a flush rising to her cheeks. Did he know 
about last night? Was it so obvious? Did it show on her face? She and Er’ril had 
made love again just before dawn, one last moment alone to touch, and to heal 
any last wounds between them. Joach continued. “You love him, don’t you, El? She 
kept her back to her brother. ”Of course I do.“ He touched her shoulder. ”Then 
you can understand how I feel—how I felt—about Kesla.“ He sighed loudly.
Elena swung back to her brother, realizing his line of inquiry was heading in a 
different direction than she had thought. She fought back her blush. “I know how 
much you loved her.”
He frowned at her words. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.” He 
glanced to his toes, a boyish gesture coming from the middle-aged figure.
Elena reached to his hand. “What is it?” She was glad that Joach was finally 
willing to talk about the pain in his heart. Maybe his rejuvenation after the 
death of Greshym had healed more than just his aged body. Still, Joach 
hesitated.
“Would you rather talk about this in my cabin? We’d have more privacy.”
He nodded, clearly relieved.
She led him down the crisscross of corridors to her room. Once at her door, she 
slipped off her glove and pricked her finger on a sliver of wood. She cast a 
tendril of wit’ch fire into the lock to melt the frozen metal.
Er’ril had suggested the added precaution to protect the talisman locked inside: 
the Blood Diary. Now she deftly melted the tumblers free and pushed the door 
wide for Joach to enter.
Elena cast a glance around the room. The furs and blankets were spread evenly. 
No evidence of the past night’s lovemaking was apparent, but to Elena’s senses, 
the room remained heady with the musky scent of their spent passions. She 
glanced to Joach, but he seemed oblivious.
Her brother crossed to the small hearth and jostled the coals brighter. As he 
warmed the room, she slipped out of her wet cloak and hung it on a wall peg. She 
reached to the oil lamp that swung from a rafter and twisted its wick brighter.
She turned to find her brother standing before the small oaken desk. Atop it lay 
the Blood Diary, its gilt rose showing the barest glimmer, heralding the coming 
midsummer moon.
Joach studied the book, hard lines marking his forehead. “According to the 
elv’in captain, the moon will rise early. It’ll be in the skies even before the 
sun has fully set.”
Elena hadn’t needed to be told this. With the magick ripe in her, she was tuned 
to the swelling moon. She knew its movements as well as the beat of her own 
heart.
“The moon and sun together,” Joach mumbled. “Do you remember what Father used to 
call that?”
Elena smiled. “A fool’s moon.” She sighed. “A moon too foolish to know the sun 
hasn’t set.”
Joach turned from the desk, leaning on his staff. “And look where we head now 
under a rising fool’s moon.” A tired grin shadowed his lips. “Who are the true 
fools?”
Elena unhooked her sword and settled to the bed. She rested the sheathed blade 
across her knees. Joach took a small stool, sitting with his staff across his 
own knees. She stared at him, searching back through their lives. How had they 
come to this room, burdened with the magick each bore?
A silence followed, the only sound the constant patter of rain on the deck above 
their heads. Finally Elena spoke. “You mentioned Kesla.”
Joach’s eyes flicked to the Blood Diary. He nodded. “I think I’ve discovered a 
way to bring her back.”
Elena could not hide the shock in her voice. “Back from the dead?”
Joach visibly swallowed. “She was dream made flesh. Could such truly die?” He 
lifted his eyes to hers. Pain shone brightly. “My abilities have grown. I think 
I can sculpt her back into this world. But…”
“But should you?” Elena asked softly. “To draw a spirit back to a body, that 
smacks of the darkest magick. Remember Rockingham, even Vira’ni. The dead should 
be allowed to die. It is the Mother’s final kindness.”
“What of Nee’lahn? She died and came back.”
Elena shook her head. “She is nyphai. She didn’t truly die, only the husk of a 
body she wore. Her spirit remained here, wrapped in the magick of her woodsong.”
“But is Kesla any different? She was born out of the Land’s magick. Who’s to say 
her spirit has passed on to the Mother?”
Elena frowned. Joach could be right, but in her heart, Elena feared so dark a 
path. “What you ask…” she mumbled, shaking her head.
Fire entered his voice. “I never said I was asking.”
Elena met his eyes. His pain had flamed into something bitter: His fingers had 
tightened on his staff. “Joach—”
“What if it was Er’ril?” he blurted angrily.
Elena opened her mouth. Her first impulse was to deny she’d follow his path. But 
sitting on this bed, where a short time ago they had shared themselves—heart, 
spirit, and body—she could not say for sure what her own decision would be. 
“How… why do you even think you could accomplish this?”
Joach held out both hands. “I’ve already done it. I showed you how I could 
create a solid illusion of my missing hand, but it was a dead, unfeeling 
creation.” He squeezed a fist. “But look! Now it lives. It’s fully a part of me 
again.”
“You said that the hand returned with your youth… after Greshym died.”
He waved her question away with his new hand. “It was more complicated, hard to 
explain. All that matters is that with Greshym gone, I could do what I couldn’t 
before.”
Elena sensed hidden meaning behind her brother’s words. “A hand is not a 
person,” she simply said. “A hand does not possess a unique spirit.”
“It can be done,” Joach insisted. “I have the knowledge, the ability. I… I only 
need one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
His eyes again drifted to the book on the table. “More life energy. The spell to 
bring true life to a dream-sculpted creation requires more energy than I have 
right now.”
“How much more?” she asked, standing up. Leaving the sword on the bed, she 
stepped toward the desk, beginning to understand.
“A lifetime’s worth,” Joach mumbled. He nodded to the Blood Diary. “Immortality 
is locked between its covers, the infinite energy of the Void.”
“I know this all too well.” Elena picked up the book. First it had granted 
Er’ril immortality to serve as its guardian and keeper. Then its power had 
passed to her. It did not stop death, but its font of energy could hold off the 
passing of winters and heal injuries more quickly.
“It would take only a small fraction of that energy to fuel the spell needed to 
bring Kesla back. Please, Elena… Kesla gave her life to break the Basilisk Gate 
that threatened our lands. We owe it to her to try and bring her back.”
Elena felt herself swaying to Joach’s cause. Dare she trust her brother’s heart 
in this matter? Could she deny him this attempt? Still, she glanced to Joach’s 
new hand, to the face that was both familiar and strange, and doubt weighed her 
heart.
Finally, she sighed, putting off such matters for now. “We dare not attempt any 
spells that might weaken the book before the coming war. I can’t risk the 
world’s fate on the possibility of one woman’s resurrection.”
Joach nodded gratefully. He clearly took her words as agreement, rather than 
just a postponement. “Of course. I didn’t mean we do this now. I must conserve 
my own magick for the battle to come.”
She started to correct Joach’s assessment, then thought better of it. She’d 
leave that discussion until later. It would also give her more time to consider 
her brother’s request.
Joach stood. “Thank you, El… I knew you’d understand.”
She simply nodded, averting her eyes.
Joach crossed back to the door. “I should see to the final preparations. 
Harlequin Quail wanted to discuss something about using illusions to confound 
our enemies.”
“If anyone knows a way to sneak us under the guard of the Dark Lord, it would be 
Harlequin,” Elena agreed, holding the door for him.
Joach turned back to her as he slipped away. “Thanks again, El.”
She smiled at him, seeing for a moment the simple, honest boy she had left in 
the orchards. But beneath that something darker stirred. His grip on his foul 
staff was tight as he thumped away.
She closed the door and leaned back against it, the Blood Diary still clutched 
to her chest. The gilt rose on its binding glowed with the growing magick of the 
moon.
Stepping from the door, she flipped open the cover. Blank pages stared back at 
her. She laid a palm on the parchment, smooth and clean. There was no evidence 
of the gateway that would open again with the moon’s rise. She wished Aunt Fila 
were here with her now. Joach had awakened old family memories. She closed the 
book and returned to the cabin’s bed. She smoothed a blanket. Even more than 
Aunt Fila, she wished her mother was here. If only for a few moments…
“Mama, what am I to do?” she whispered to the empty room. For answer, a piercing 
horn echoed through the ship. She swung around. The sentinels in the crow’s 
nest! Distantly a more muffled horn answered the first, this time from the 
ground, from the blasted orchard. It begins!
She ran to the door and tore it open. She was startled to find Joach blocking 
her way. He must have returned for her when the alarm was raised. “Joach! We 
must—”
Further words were knocked from her as he struck her straight-armed in the 
chest. She stumbled backward, caught off balance. She fell back on the bed as 
Joach pushed into the room after her. “Joach, what are you—”
Then the illusion fell from the figure as he slammed the door behind him. Red 
hair faded to brown, features melted from the warm familiarity of her brother to 
another familiar face—but one far from warm.
Elena could not catch her breath from tlie shock and disbelief. It was 
impossible. She had seen his body hacked apart and buried. His name choked from 
her throat. “Greshym!”
She snatched for her wit’ch dagger, but before her fingers could touch its hilt, 
a magickal force ripped forth from the darkmage. Elena was thrown to the wall, 
pinned in place, spread-eagled against the slightly curved planks. She could not 
move.
Greshym stepped toward her, kicking through the jumble of furs and blankets. 
“It’s no use struggling.”
Despite his words, she fought the invisible bonds. Her hands pounded with 
energy, aglow with magick—coldfire in one, wit’ch fire in the other— but with no 
blade to release the blood magick, she was kept from her power, at the mercy of 
this creature.
Greshym leaned near to her. “Now where is the blood sword?”
With the first horn blast, Er’ril leaped to one of the underside hatches of the 
Windsprite, while others in the hold scattered to various portholes and hatches. 
Er’ril dropped beside a coil of rope attached to a complex block-and-tackle 
pulley system overhead—the conveyance used to haul supplies. He leaned out to 
stare at the landscape below.
Rain swept in waves, obscuring the view, but clearly something had the og’res 
roiled. Another horn blast echoed up from the muddy orchard.
He could not see what threatened. All he could make out was columns of og’res 
breaking down into bouldered lines. Others bounded about, shouting orders that 
didn’t reach this high.
What was going on? He needed a better vantage. Just as he pushed up, a large 
shape burst up through the hatch, shooting into the hold with a flourish of 
wings and a gust of wet air. Er’ril rolled away, his sword in his hand as he 
regained his feet.
But no defense was necessary. The shape, still in flight, spun through the 
hollow space and landed in a wary pose. The creature was a blend of avian and 
human features: a crown of feathers, naked legs, arms that trailed long pinions, 
and a narrow, pinched face. Amber eyes glowed in the dim hold.
Fardale and Thorn appeared at Er’ril’s side. “It’s one of our scouts!”
Er’ril sheathed his sword. “What is happening?”
The si’luran glanced around the room, panting. “Under attack. From the ground 
itself. Lying in wait—an ambush.” The bird-man locked eyes with Thorn. “The 
elder’root sends word.” His eyes glowed at Thorn for a long silent moment.
She nodded, as Fardale clutched her elbow. Clearly he had caught the silent 
message, too.
His duty done, the scout dove back out the hatch. Er’ril caught the glimpse of 
feathers sprouting as the shape-shifter dropped away, becoming a terror-hawk 
again.
“What did he tell you?” Er’ril asked Thorn.
She turned to him, paler than a moment before. “My father and his army are going 
even now to join the battle below.”
Er’ril clenched a fist. “I must see what they face.” He swung up the stairs to 
the open deck above. When he shouldered open the door, he found the storm 
growing fiercer; spats of stinging rain pelted the rolling deck. He dragged the 
hood of his cloak over his head and hunched into the foul weather. He spotted 
Tol’chuk and Magnam already stationed by a rail, leaning over to peer below.
He hurried over as another hatch banged open in the wind. He turned, expecting 
to see Elena, but it was Meric and Nee’lahn. “What’s happening?” Meric cried 
into the gale.
I
Er’ril shook his head. Tol’chuk glanced to them as the entire party assembled at 
the rail. His brow was furrowed deeply.
Er’ril stared below, his fingers scrabbling for his spyglass.
Through the curtains of rain, he watched carnage, as strange beasts burrowed up 
from dead branches and muddy leaves.
Yanking his spyglass free of his belt, Er’ril focused down, drawn into the heart 
of the battle. He watched a black creature unfold from the tangle of roots of an 
upturned tree. It was all articulated limbs, some cross between a praying mantis 
and an ant, but it stood as tall as a man. The monster sprang on an og’re, 
wrapping its legs around its victim. Razored mandibles tore at neck and face as 
both combatants fell, rolling, in the mud.
Elsewhere, monstrous slugs, the size of fallen logs, oozed from subterranean 
burrows. Their oily skin hissed with poison in the rains. Wormy appendages shot 
out, burning flesh to bone with a touch. Er’ril watched one of the monstrosities 
roll over an injured og’re, melting straight through the flesh of the fellow’s 
legs.
Bellows echoed up from below, while thunder rumbled over the horizon. It was a 
slaughterhouse. Er’ril lowered his spyglass, sickened both from the death and 
his own impotence.
Despite the odds, the og’res slogged forward through the trap, paying in blood 
for every step. Er’ril gripped the rail almost desperately, willing them his own 
strength.
“They’ll never make it alone,” Tol’chuk said at his side. Er’ril understood. The 
edge of the pit was still a full league away. “They’re not alone,” Fardale said 
fiercely. He pointed toward the skies. Against the clouds, the si’luran army 
massed, a dark flock. Turning in unison, the winged army dove toward the 
fighting. They fell with all the might of their momentum, striking out with 
claws and beaks.
Er’ril lifted his spyglass again, his heart thundering in his ears. One golden 
eagle fell upon the og’re still writhing with the black insectoid creature. The 
bird struck with such speed, Er’ril could barely mark the passage. Only when the 
chitinous head dropped from the eagle’s claws did Er’ril understand. The og’re, 
bloody-faced and roaring, shook off the decapitated monster.
From the skies, death rained upon the hidden lurkers. Slowly the tide of the 
battle turned. The og’res surged forward, clubs beating a path forward. Working 
together, the two armies rolled toward the waiting pit.
Er’ril lowered his glass and stared at the hole blasted in the highlands.
He knew this was only the first skirmish. Whatever else lay ahead remained 
shrouded in the swirling smoky fog.
He glanced down the rail. Tol’chuk stood with Magnam. Meric with Nee’lahn. 
Fardale and Thorn. All wore matching expressions of tired horror.
From a hatch, Joach and Harlequin appeared, Jaston and the swamp child behind 
them. Joach waved to Er’ril. “We may have worked out a plan—”
Er’ril cut him off. “Where’s your sister?” He had left Elena with her brother. 
He had thought he was still with her.
Joach scanned the rainy deck. “I… I thought she’d be up here. Last I saw, she 
was in her cabin.”
Er’ril’s heart climbed into his throat. The horns should have drawn her topside. 
Cursing his lapse in attention, he shoved past Joach and the others.
Joach was caught up in his wake. “She seemed to want some time alone…”
Er’ril was deaf to his words. He burst through the forward hatch, leaping the 
stairs.
Joach ran after him. “What’s wrong?”
Er’ril didn’t answer. He raced into the belly of the ship. He had put too much 
trust in the open air around them, their isolation. He had foolishly let his 
guard down, trusting Joach to watch after his sister for a moment. But a moment 
was all it took to lose everything.
He pounded down the length of the ship, praying he wasn’t too late. He spotted 
their cabin door at the end of the hall. Nothing seemed amiss.
Joach yelled, racing after him. “What are you—?”
Ahead, the explosion blasted the door off its hinges, blowing it down the hall. 
Er’ril was tossed backward, colliding into Joach. The flying door struck them 
with the force of a hammer, clipping Er’ril on the side of the head as it 
tumbled past. All sound went silent, his vision skittered, and time paused for a 
frozen instant.
Then Er’ril slammed into the planks, hitting his head again. He fought against 
the tide, but the world slipped away… into darkness.
Elena blinked through tears after the magickal explosion. She was still pinned 
against the wall, helpless. Her head ached; her heart pounded in her throat. Her 
hands were twin suns of pent energies.
Greshym stood before her, his cloak billowing with energies, staff held
M
before him like a king’s scepter. He had lost all composure, anger and 
frustration turning him wild. “Where is the blood sword? Tell me, or I’ll rip 
this ship apart and pick through the ruins myself!”
The darkmage had the power to back his threat—she only had to look at the ruin 
of the doorway to know this. But she remained silent. Since capturing her, he 
had battered at her will with horrible figments, whispered promises, but he 
dared not risk physical harm against her. If he were to bloody her hands, the 
magick would be hers again. It was a standoff.
Elena carefully kept her eyes away from the furs at the darkmage’s feet. His 
initial attack had thrown the bedding to a jumble at the foot of the bed. The 
wit’ch sword lay hidden in the pile. Clearly Greshym believed the sword more 
artfully protected—not lying in plain sight. She kept her eyes fixed on Greshym.
The darkmage’s patience had worn thin. He must know his time was running short.
A voice startled them both. “Greshym!”
The darkmage swung around. Joach stood in the splintered doorway, his staff 
raised before him. “Joach! Get back!”
Her brother ignored her. “You swore you’d not return!” Greshym shrugged, but 
kept his staff raised. “I only collect one last item. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Shadowsedge,” Joach said, his eyes narrowing. “It would destroy your sister 
anyway. I’ll find a better use for it.” Elena hung from the wall. Shock coursed 
through her despite the terror of the moment. Joach plainly was not surprised to 
find Greshym alive. From her brother’s words, some pact had been made between 
them. But why? Just to regain some of his life? Elena stared at Joach’s 
resurrected hand. No, it had been something more important than his own life. 
Kesla. She closed her eyes for an awful moment. She had not realized the depths 
of her brother’s despair.
Greshym spoke. “And I must say, my boy, your timing here could not have been 
more opportune.”
Elena opened her eyes, sensing a well of power building in the room. “I had no 
leverage with which to pry your sister’s secret.” Greshym lashed out with his 
staff, more swiftly than a striking snake. “But with you here…”
A whirl of oily darkness opened behind her brother.
“Joach!” Elena yelled.
Before she could finish her cry, a horrid beast leaped from the darkness and 
snatched at her brother. It was gray-skinned, muzzled, with peaked ears, and its 
hands ended in ripping claws. Bone-crushing arms ending in vicious claws grabbed 
Joach, ripping through his clothes to dig into flesh. His staff tumbled to the 
floor, rolling out of reach.
The beast lowered its muzzle to Joach’s throat, lips curled in a snarl, razored 
teeth glinting. He snuffled hungrily, piggish eyes bright with blood lust.
“Rukh likes you,” Greshym said as her brother struggled. “I think he remembers 
the taste of your old hand.” Joach’s struggles became more frantic as the 
darkmage turned to Elena. “Now perhaps we can negotiate: Shadowsedge, for your 
brother’s life.”
Elena stared at the slavering beast.
“And don’t expect any further interruptions,” the darkmage added. “I’ve sealed 
the end of this corridor.”
Elena’s eyes drifted toward the floor, toward the rumple of blankets and furs. 
She had no choice. “The sword—”
Then movement caught her eye. Joach’s staff was rising from the floor behind 
Greshym, a shadow building under it. Her brows pinched.
Greshym sensed the danger a moment too late. He swung, but the staff lunged over 
his head as the shadow burst upward. The darkmage was caught by the neck, choked 
across the throat by the stone staff. His own bone stave clattered to the floor 
as he grabbed for his neck. Behind the darkmage, the shadow continued to take 
shape, as if folding out from another space.
It was Joach!
Greshym’s mouth opened in dismay, even as her brother continued to throttle the 
mage. “I warned you never to return.” Joach slammed a boot atop the fallen 
staff, shattering the length of bone. Blood flowed from the shards, steaming 
across the planks. A howl rose—and Greshym groaned to match.
Joach glanced to the beast who was holding his facsimile. With a wave of his 
hand, the image dissolved to sand—then even that vanished.
The goblin startled back to cower against the wall, eyes darting.
“Free my sister,” Joach hissed.
Greshym lifted his hand as a scrape of wood sounded by the doorway. All eyes 
swung around.
Er’ril stood, leaning against the ruined frame, sword in hand. Blood dribbled 
down his forehead. “Elena…” i
The moment’s distraction was all it took. Greshym slammed his elbow into Joach’s 
rib cage. At the same time, obeying some silent command, the beast leaped at 
Er’ril with a roar.
Elena fought her bonds, but she could not even move her fingers.
Before her, Joach coughed, the air knocked from his chest. He stumbled back, 
releasing the darkmage. Greshym leaped free, crouching amid the remains of his 
shattered staff. He opened his palm over the bloody remnants, and the bone 
shards reassembled in a flash of magick. His staff snapped back to his fingers.
Joach lifted his own staff, but the darkmage was quicker. Magick blasted out. 
Her brother was thrown across the cabin to strike the stone hearth—pinned 
against the wall as surely as Elena.
By the doorway, Er’ril was a whirl of steel. He skewered the dark-mage’s 
creature again and again. Then with a final spin, he sliced his sword across the 
beast’s throat. Blood spurted to the ceiling as the creature fell dead to the 
floor.
Er’ril stalked into the room, the front of his cloak dripping with gore.
Greshym spoke from the corner where he crouched by Joach, his bone staff 
pointing toward the plainsman. “Even after five centuries, you’ve not lost your 
stroke. Now drop your sword and kick it over here.”
“No!” Joach spat, seething.
Greshym shoved his stumped wrist toward Joach, whose trapped body convulsed, 
back arching from the wall despite the restraints. A scream burst from his lips, 
along with a gout of blood.
“Joach!” Elena cried out.
“Do as I say,” Greshym hissed at Er’ril, “or I’ll make the girl suffer, too.”
After a tense pause, Er’ril dropped his weapon, pushing it away.
Greshym lowered his stumped arm. Joach collapsed, sagging back to the wall, 
blood dribbling from his lips.
“Joach… ?” Elena moaned.
“He’ll live with nothing worse than an ache in his belly,” Greshym said. “But 
that can change. It’s up to you.” He nodded to Er’ril. “And it seems one more 
life has been added to the pot. You are a hard bargainer, my dear. Now I’m 
forced to offer two lives for the ancient sword.”
“Don’t do it,” Er’ril quickly blurted.
Greshym ignored the plainsman. His eyes stayed on Elena, while his staff 
remained pointed at Er’ril. “Have you ever seen skin stripped from a body in one 
tear? It’s a bit tricky, but I’ve had practice. You just pick the
James Llemens
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one: Er’ril or Joach. Husband or brother.“ Greshym swung his staff back and 
forth. ”I don’t care which.“
Elena knew they were defeated. She nodded to the blankets. “The sword is right 
there, under the furs.”
Greshym’s eyes widened as he stared to his toes. “It was there all along?” He 
glanced to Er’ril and shook his head. “I could see her making such an error, but 
you? You should know better. You hold a talisman strong enough to defeat the 
Black Heart, and you leave it lying about like kitchen cutlery?” He crossed to 
the bedding and kicked through it. He was satisfied with a distinct clan’t. “I 
expected complicated wards that only Elena could unlock.”
Er’ril glowered at the darkmage.
Warily, Greshym tucked his staff under his arm and fished through the furs. He 
straightened with the rose-pommel hilt in hand. He shook off the sheath to 
reveal the icy length of elemental steel. “Shadowsedge…” Greshym said with awe, 
suppressing a relieved laugh. “Mine at last!”
He dropped his bone staff and kicked it aside. The simple action was enough to 
tell Elena how awful a weapon the blade must be.
She met Er’ril’s eyes. He was staring at her hands. He clearly understood her 
powers were pent up, unavailable. His eyes returned to hers. “Remember your 
family’s bathing chamber,” he whispered. “When you burned it down…”
Elena frowned. She had told Er’ril that story long ago. She had barely bloomed 
to her Rose, just after her first menstra. While soaking in a cooling tub, she 
had willed the waters to warm, but with no control of her magick, she had come 
near to boiling herself alive. But what did that have to do with now? She had no 
access to her powers. She wasn’t bloodied…
Then her eyes grew wide. Her hands hadn’t been bloodied then, either. Afterward, 
thinking back on it, she had figured the release had to do with the bleeding 
from her first menstra. The flow of blood from the core of her womanhood must 
have allowed the magick to stream out into the bathwater.
She stared at Er’ril. From first bleed to first blood…
He knew she still seeped from their first night together. Blood again— from the 
heart of her womanhood. Could this be a way?
She listened to the magick raging inside her, the pure energy, fresh from the 
Void. She willed it to flow from her ruby hands, back to her heart. As she did 
so, the glow faded from her fingers.
Greshym turned to them, holding the sword before him. “As bargained,
Wit ch Star
I will spare the lives of those you love, but there is another here to whom I 
owe a debt.“
Er’ril stepped between the mage and Elena. “I’ll not let you harm her.”
Greshym laughed. “Always the knight, Er’ril.” The darkmage swung to the desk. 
“But I intend your woman no harm. I’d prefer she waste her life attacking the 
Black Heart. To that end, we are united in purpose.” He pointed the sword to the 
Blood Diary. “It is Cho. I mean to make her pay for making me dance like her 
little puppet.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Now you shall understand the full 
power of the sword—to break spells, to unbind what is bound.”
Joach realized his intent the same moment as Elena. “No!” he gasped out, 
spitting blood.
Greshym eyed him, lowering the sword slightly. “Some dreams are better left 
dead.”
Joach struggled, eyes wild. “I’ll make you pay!” The gray stone staff rattled on 
the planks, but he failed to move it more than a handspan.
Greshym eyed his efforts, lifting one brow. “You are strong, my boy. What I 
could have done with you, given the time.” He shook his head sadly and turned 
back to the Blood Diary.
Elena did not waste her brother’s efforts. In the moment of distraction, she 
reached to the core of her being and touched the chorus of power there. As the 
darkmage stepped toward the desk, she lashed out with her magick. Wild energies 
lanced burning from the heart of her womanhood.
Greshym sensed the release of unstoppable power and lunged forward. The magick 
blasted through the planks at his heels, missing him by the breadth of a hair.
Splintered wood shattered up. Raw magick crashed through the ship and out the 
belly, leaving a hole clear through to the ground far below. The backwash 
cindered Elena’s bonds. She fell limply from the wall.
Er’ril was immediately at her side.
Across the ragged hole, the darkmage teetered, the back of his cloak singed. He 
caught his balance and turned, the sword held before him. “Clever girl,” he 
growled at her. “But you’ll never get a second chance. The sword will protect me 
from even your magick.”
Elena knew this to be right. She had wielded the sword herself. It would protect 
its bearer. “Leave with the sword then,” she said, standing. “But I’ll not let 
you harm the Blood Diary.”
Greshym frowned at the book on the desk; the smoldering hole lay between him and 
the Diary. “This is not over, girl. That I promise!”
|ames Clemens

He stepped forward, ready to leap through the hole and away with his prize. 
Elena felt the dance of magick in the air.
A blur of movement caught her eye. Er’ril dove from her side, leaping and 
rolling. As he tumbled, he pulled a dagger from his boot and flung it with all 
the accuracy of an experienced juggler. The blade struck the mage’s wrist, 
skewering it.
Greshym’s sword arm was thrown back. Shadowsedge tumbled from his limp fingers, 
to clatter harmlessly against the hearth.
The darkmage was not so lucky. Twisted off balance, he began his own slow tumble 
through the hole. A wail of disbelief shrieked from his throat. With his staff 
abandoned, stripped of the sword, he had no magick to stop his fall.
Down he went, screaming.
Er’ril knelt at the hole’s edge. Elena joined him.
The darkmage’s body cartwheeled end over end, arms and legs flailing. Far below, 
he struck one of the stripped orchard trees. The sharp, broken top pierced his 
chest. He slid, spiked through the gut, to the midpoint of the tree, then hung 
there, unmoving.
Joach slid down the wall as death released the binding spell.
Elena remembered Aunt Mycelle’s warning long ago about putting too much faith in 
magick alone. Here was the proof. Shadowsedge, one of the most potent talismans 
ever crafted against magick, had failed against something as simple as an 
ordinary Standish dagger.
Er’ril touched Elena’s shoulder, drawing her back, but Joach stepped to her 
other side. His chest heaved. His face was pale with fury. In his hands, he held 
Greshym’s bone staff.
“Not yet,” he said in a half moan. His lips continued to move, but no further 
words were heard.
Elena felt a chill waft out from her brother. “Joach… no. It’s over.”
He ignored her. His lips were blue from the cold coming off him. He lifted the 
staff and pointed it down. With a final silent utterance, he jabbed it toward 
the bloody tree below.
A jet of black flame spat from the staff’s end: balefire. It ripped through the 
dark morning, drawing shadows to it as it struck the bloodied tree. Flaming sap 
and bark blasted out, sailing far into the fields. The balefire burned down to 
the impaled body and burst with a surge of black flames. A scream of the damned 
wafted upon its fires for an endless moment, then faded away, leaving only a 
smoky ruin, flames dancing atop a smoldering stump.
“This time he’s truly dead,” Joach mumbled. The bone staff crumbled
Wi’t‘ch Star to ash in his fingertips, raining down through the hole. Joach 
turned his back and strode stiffly toward the door. Without another word, he was 
gone.
Elena found herself unable to move. She was glad Greshym was gone, the monster 
who had slain her parents and tormented her brother. But a strange sense of 
defeat washed through her. She stared from the smoldering stump to the doorway. 
Who had truly won here?
Er’ril collected a blanket from the floor. He covered her singed clothes. 
Through the hole, the bright sounds of horns rose to them, reminding them of the 
other war raging below.
Er’ril drew her up, held her close until her shaking subsided.
After a long moment, she found her voice. “If you hadn’t remembered about the 
blood—” she began, glancing up to him.
“Shush,” he whispered. “Do you think my taking your maidenhood was something I’d 
forget so soon?”
She stared into his eyes and saw a trace of guilt mixed with pained 
responsibility. She touched his cheek. “If you hadn’t… we could easily have lost 
everything this morning.”
He simply hugged her tighter. But the horns continued to sound below; the world 
would not wait forever. Finally, he stepped from her side and retrieved 
Shadowsedge from the corner, slipping it into his empty sheath.
He met her gaze. “Greshym’s appearance—it had something to do with Joach, didn’t 
it?”
Elena nodded. “He did it for Kesla—some way of resurrecting her, a magick or 
spell that Greshym must have traded for his freedom.”
Er’ril glanced toward the doorway. “Once one starts down that dark road… Can we 
still trust him?”
Elena stared toward the empty doorway, wondering at this question, frightened 
that she even had a doubt. Her words were a whisper. “I don’t know.”
It was well past midday, and Joach could still taste the bitter alchemy of 
dragon blood on the back of his tongue. The elixir had healed the ache in his 
belly from Greshym’s attack, but it did little to mend his bruised heart.
He stood at the prow of the Windspnte. Rain soaked his hair and ran in rivulets 
down his neck and back. He didn’t bother shivering. The core of his being was 
colder than the downpour. He lifted his face to the dark skies. It was midday, 
but it still seemed twilight. Would this gloom never end?
Gripping his staff, he swung his gaze below. In the battle to come, he would 
prove himself as best he could. He would not fail.
But despite his determination, Elena’s eyes still haunted him. She had said all 
the right things after the battle belowdecks: how she understood his need, how 
she forgave him, how he was still her brother. But he had seen something 
different in her eyes. She no longer held him as close in her heart. And he knew 
that this was one wound that even dragon blood would never heal.
He closed his eyes on this pain and instead focused on another frustration: 
Greshym was dead. Joach had made sure of it, striking out with blind fury, 
casting the balefire that roasted the darkmage’s body to ash. But he found 
little satisfaction in the act… in fact, the opposite was true. Without doubt, 
he hated Greshym with all his heart. The mage had stolen everything from him: 
parents, his youth, the woman he loved… now even the deep bond with his sister. 
But he understood that an important key to his own identity had been lost 
forever this morning. What I could have done with you…
These last words of Greshym’s ate at him. With the darkmage’s demise, so died 
any hope of understanding the depths and breadth of his own magick. Joach shook 
his head. While his heart remained bruised, a core of anger grew into a hot 
ember.
Perhaps Elena had acted too hastily. If she had just waited— “Are you ready?” 
Harlequin interrupted his thoughts. Joach opened his eyes back to the world.
Below, the two armies—og’re and si’luran—awaited the final assault on the pit. 
They had forged ahead through the long morning to within a stone’s throw of the 
crater’s rim. There the armies had lain entrenched through the day’s middle, 
tending the wounded and readying for the last surge into the pit.
The landscape below had gone ominously silent. Only the rumble of thunder rolled 
over the blasted valley. The entire world held its breath.
“Joach?” Harlequin asked again.
Half turning, Joach glanced across the deck. Everyone was assembled, packs in 
place, weapons sheathed and strapped. He met Elena’s gaze. She nodded with 
reassurance toward him. She stood in black boots and a dark cloak, a match to 
the knight beside her. Joach caught the glint of the rose pommel at her hip: 
Shadowsedge. She also carried the Blood Diary inside her cloak, ready for the 
rising moon.
Joach met her gaze, reading the edge of doubt behind her encouragement. He would 
not fail. “Sound the charge,” he directed the spy.
Harlequin Quail waved to Tol’chuk. The og’re, standing at the starboard rail, 
lifted a curled ram’s horn to his lips.
“Let it begin,” Joach whispered to himself.
The horn blared across the valley, and a roar answered from below.
The og’re army lumbered in a wall of clubs and muscle toward the shrouded pit. 
Behind them, a sail of wings rose in a dark cloud as the si’lura took to the 
sky.
“Now,” Harlequin said needlessly at his side. The plan had been the small man’s, 
but it was up to Joach to execute it.
Joach fed his blood into his staff. Gray stone turned pale. Green crystals 
flared along its length. Joach lifted his staff and tapped it on the planks of 
the ship.
Distantly, he heard Harlequin yell to the Windsprite’s captain. The ship slipped 
forward under his feet. Exclamations of wonder rose from those gathered behind 
him. He didn’t have to turn to know what they saw.
As the elv’in ship surged forward, a twin was left in its place. To the eyes 
below, it would seem the Windspnte never left its position in the skies. The 
ship sailing forward was masked in cloud and illusion, the spell like the one he 
had used to catch Greshym by surprise earlier—a diversion, a mock-up to trick 
the eye. Joach prayed the end result would be more successful this time.
The ship flew onward, riding over the two armies. Then from up ahead, a legion 
of monsters burst from the mists, leaping and winging forth to meet the assault. 
Screams carried on the winds. Howls and shivering sounds of madness rose like 
steam.
But the ship flew above it all, ignored and unseen.
In moments, the battle vanished under the keel, taking the world with it. The 
landscape became a sea of mists, whirling in a churning eddy. The ship’s captain 
aimed for the eye of the whirlpool, drifting over the pit and down, as if caught 
in the vortex.
“Everyone below!” Er’ril called. “To the ropes and pulleys!”
Joach stared down a moment longer. Though he knew the ship was cloaked in 
illusion, he sensed something immense staring back up at them, an abyss of 
darkness from which there would be no escape. It seemed to call to him. He found 
himself leaning over the rail, mesmerized by the churning mists.

“Joach?” Harlequin said at his side, touching his elbow. “It’s time ”
With the man’s touch, Joach tore his gaze free—but he could not so easily escape 
the sense of doom. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter
“Are you all right?” the short man in bells asked.
Joach nodded. “I’m fine.” On this foul and endless journey, what was one more 
lie?
Kast prepared to launch from the Dragonsheart as an argument played out at his 
side. Hunt stood on the deck, tugging little Sheeshon toward the dragon. “I 
won’t go without Roddie!” she yelled.
Hunt dropped to one knee. “We must. It’s dangerous enough to bring even you.”
Beyond the pair, Hunt’s father, the high keel, stood with his meaty hands on 
Rodricko’s small shoulders. Beside them, Xin stood with the portly Shaman 
Bilatus.
It had taken the entire morning to relate the danger of the oily creature 
lurking in the Southern Gate. Strategies had been rethought. Crows were sent 
like arrows between ships on the sea and in the air.
Kast was the center of all the flurry. The loss of the dragon was a serious 
blow, for while Kast could still wing through the air in this form, he was not a 
gifted flyer. It had taken all his concentration to reach the ship, landing in a 
tumble across the deck. Despite appearances, he was not Ragnar’k.
After he finally got his message delivered—aided by the considerable skill of 
Xin to read the secrets in another’s heart—plans were quickly altered. A cadre 
of elv’in Thunderclouds would proceed in advance of the surface fleet. They 
would lance the creature with bolts from their keels and try to draw it into the 
open. Then Dre’rendi forces would attack from the sea with catapults. Under this 
cover, the mer’ai and their dragons would rush the seawall, slipping through the 
jagged Crown of Blackhall to the lagoon beyond. If the creature tried to flee 
into the waters, the dragons would be waiting to battle the beast. And once 
under siege, the monster would be attacked from all sides until victory was 
achieved.
A trumpet sounded crisply across the morning.
Kast raised his head. The six Thunderclouds were already swelling their sails to 
sweep forward. Unbidden, a growl escaped his throat. His heart ached with worry 
for Sy-wen, alone on those black shores. Silver claws dug gouges in the planks. 
He had spent too long here already. Every beat of his giant heart was another 
moment that Sy-wen was in danger.
A childish scream drew his attention back to the closer battle.
“Sheeshon, stop fighting me.” Hunt’s face was as red as his crimson shirt. Kast 
noted how wasted the high keel’s son appeared. His black cloak hung loosely from 
his rolled shoulders. His cheekbones stuck out more prominently. While 
possessed, the creature inside Hunt sought to harm its host: refusing to eat, 
vomiting, digging gouges from his face, tearing hair. But with Sheeshon in hand, 
Hunt was his own man again, tall, proud, his hair braided in a neat warrior’s 
knot.
Still, Kast’s senses, sharpened by the dragon form he wore, smelled the trace of 
Hunt’s fear. It terrified the man to know what he became without the child. 
Thus, he clung to Sheeshon now. The child had to come with them to the island. 
For Hunt to be freed by the volcanic smoke, he would have to travel with 
Kast—and Sheeshon had to accompany them to keep Hunt under control.
But the battle continued.
“Roddie must come!” Sheeshon screamed into the overcast day. The child refused 
to go anywhere without her friend, even to the blasted island.
Rodricko did not share her sentiment. He sank back into the high keel’s shadow, 
eyes wide with fear. He clutched the flowered stem to his chest. The flower lay 
bloomed under the boy’s chin, casting a fiery glow from the heart of its purple 
petals.
Kast had had enough of this delay. He remembered the fear in Sy-wen. It was a 
dagger in his heart. Enough! The fire in his chest burst out in a roar that 
tumbled everyone back from his flanks.
Sheeshon’s face drained of color. Hunt shielded her under him, as if fearing 
Kast would attack. Rodricko ducked between the high keel’s legs and hid in his 
cloak.
Only Xin seemed unaffected by his outburst, a broad smile on his small face. 
“The dragon has lost patience. He bellows his agony for the woman he loves. It 
is written with fire on his heart.”
Again Kast appreciated the tribesman’s talent.
Shaman Bilatus wiped his brow, paler than a moment ago. He addressed Hunt. “You 
cannot fight this child all the way to the island. Kast will have enough to do 
getting you both safely there. If the child will be calmer with Rodricko along, 
then so be it.”
Kast grunted agreement, tossing his head.
“We’d be putting the boy to needless risk,” the high keel argued, standing 
taller to protect the child.
Bilatus motioned toward Blackhall. “We all stand in the shadow of that cursed 
peak. The boy is already at risk.”
The high keel narrowed his eyes, hardly convinced. Bilatus stepped nearer his 
leader. “Sheeshon gave us the key to unlock your son’s imprisonment. If she 
hadn’t insisted the boy’s flower be bathed in the island’s smoke—”
His words were waved away by the high keel. “I’m indebted to the girl.”
“And you also owe the seven gods of the sea your thanks. The child is blessed 
with the rajor maga. She hears their whispers from over the horizon. They speak 
through her.”
The high keel’s lips hardened to thin lines.
“We should listen to her now,” Bilatus said firmly.
The high keel expelled a large breath. “Let it be done then.” He unfolded the 
boy from his sea cloak, then patted him on the shoulder. “Go with Sheeshon and 
Hunt.”
Rodricko didn’t move, a statue with large round eyes.
The high keel dropped to one knee. “You are Dre’rendi, are you not? A 
Bloodrider.”
Slowly the boy’s head nodded.
“Then you must make your heart as brave as a boulder in an angry surf. That is 
our way. Can you do this for your high keel?”
Rodricko’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he made a small sound of agreement.
“That’s a good boy.” He turned Rodricko around and passed him to Hunt. The high 
keel stared hard at his son. “Take care of the children.”
“With my own life,” Hunt promised. He scooped Rodricko into one arm.
Sheeshon followed willingly, all the fight replaced with excitement. “We get to 
ride a dragon!” She puffed her tiny chest out. “Course, I rode one before.”
In short order, they were mounted on Kast’s back. He snugged the flaps around 
Hunt’s ankles to hold him in place. In turn, the big man held the two children 
clasped between his own legs, arms around them.
“Safe journey!” Bilatus called.
Kast stretched his wings and readied his legs to leap skyward. But a door 
crashed open nearby. “Wait!” Master Edyll climbed out, a pack in his arms. 
“Wait… Take this with you!”
“What is it?” Hunt asked as the elder limped forward.
He panted, his expression pained. “For Sy-wen.”
The high keel frowned as Hunt took the pack, but Master Edyll was as impatient 
as Kast. “Go!” the elder said, backing away. “Go!”
Kast bunched his legs under him. Hunt hunched over the children. With a burst of 
legs and sweep of wings, they shoved from the ship into the empty air.
Kast spread his wings, letting the instincts and reflexes of the dragon’s body 
do most of the flying. The wings caught the winds, banking away from the ship. 
He felt the pressure of his wards atop his back and was careful to balance them 
as he caught a warm uprising from a boiling section of sea. Though his heart 
cried to rush to the black beaches and Sy-wen, he kept his pace even.
Sheeshon whooped with excitement, while Rodricko’s cries were more moans of 
worry. “Open your eyes!” Sheeshon yelled into the winds.
“No!” Rodricko answered.
The black mountain covered the horizon ahead of them, and slowly— too 
slowly—grew to fill more and more of the sky. The plan was for them to sweep 
onto the beach and have Hunt climb to one of the smoking spouts. Once Hunt was 
exposed and hopefully cured, he would remain with the children and Sy-wen in 
hiding. Kast would keep guard from the air while overseeing the assault upon the 
beast in the gate.
When the mer’ai forces were through the opening in the rocky Crown, a rescue 
force would be sent to collect Sy-wen, Hunt, and the children. Kast would then 
turn his full attention upon the battle.
According to Xin, Tyrus had already reached the Northern Gate with the d’warf 
army. The goal was to join their two forces inside the mountain. A rallying 
point had been coordinated using the maps provided by Harlequin Quail.
After Sy-wen and the others were safely away, Kast would attempt to penetrate 
the cavernous gate. If the monster lurking there could be lured away, he would 
sweep through the gate’s threshold, to scout out what lay ahead for their 
forces.
That was the plan. But Kast had been in hundreds of campaigns and sea battles 
while sailing the Blasted Shoals with the Dre’rendi: He knew that few plans 
unfolded without mishap. So he flew with a heavy heart, weighted down by 
worries.
Overhead, the cadre of Thunderclouds swept forward, iron keels glowing brightly 
in the gloom of the day. Already spats of lightning ran in shivering tangles 
over their lengths as the ships’ captains fed energy into the magick-wrought 
iron, readying for the attack. The six ships sailed in a tight formation, an 
arrow aimed toward the gate.
Kast banked out of their shadows, heading slightly westward, toward where he had 
left Sy-wen. He slowly increased his pace, and soon they were sweeping over the 
shoals and gliding low over the lagoon. Ahead, the black sand beach stretched 
empty.
His heart thundered in his ears. Where was Sy-wen? As he frantically scanned the 
rocks and sand, he both prayed and feared he had the wrong section of beach. 
Surely she would have spotted their approach and come out of hiding.
As he reached the beach, he cupped back his wings and extended his legs to land 
in a running stop in the loose sand. But he barely noted his safe landfall. 
Instead, roar of frustration bellowed from his throat. Then Hunt’s words cut 
through the hammer of his heart. “She’s over there!”
Kast scrambled around, casting up a plume of sand with his claws. Far down the 
beach, he spotted a lithe figure leaping down some rocks. Sy-wen! Relief flooded 
through him. He must have overshot his target. He cursed the island for its 
monotonous shoreline, but his relief made him drunk with joy.
Down the strand, Sy-wen struck the sand running and raced toward them. As she 
flew, she moved to the wet sands where the waters lapped the beach, seeking 
firmer footing.
Only then did Kast spot her pursuers.
They looked like four boulders tumbling behind her, craggy and massive. They 
leaped after her atop massive hind legs, bounding like malignant toads. The one 
in the lead yowled, revealing a maw that split its head from one side to the 
other. Daggered fangs lined the mouth.
Kast shrugged the riders from his shoulders. Hunt, already half off, was knocked 
to his knees in the sand, still clutching a child under each arm.
Free of his burden, Kast leaped forward, closing the distance to Sy-wen in a 
single bound. He trumpeted his fury at the beasts.
The creatures slowed warily, allowing Sy-wen to race to him.
Get to Hunt! he bellowed at her.
Without a word of argument, she raced under one of his wings, ducking low, lest 
her touch turn him back into a man. Careful, my love, she sent as she passed.
Care was not something on his mind. He was ruled by the dragon instincts rising 
to the surface. Rage fueled his blood. His vision sharpened upon his prey.
As if noticing the attention, the first of the beasts struck, leaping toward the 
dragon’s long neck, mouth gaping, teeth glinting. Clearly the creatures had 
never tangled with the likes of a dragon. Kast snatched the toadish beast in 
midair, clamping hard, fangs piercing deep. Bones splintered. Kast shook the 
creature, hearing another satisfying crack, then tossed the limp form into the 
lagoon.
The next two attacked in unison. One went for his throat, the other his belly.
Kast knocked the first aside with a blow from his wing. The other was crushed 
under silver claws, driven into the sands as Kast spun all his bulk atop the one 
foot. The beast who had been knocked aside bounded back stubbornly, only to meet 
Kast’s jaws. He bit through the creature’s neck, leaving its headless body to 
scrabble blindly before falling quivering to the sands.
“Kast!” Sy-wen screamed behind him.
He whipped around to find the fourth and final creature had slipped past him 
during his battle, splashing through the shallows to go after easier prey.
Hunt stood down the beach, sheltering the two children and Sy-wen. He had a 
sword in one hand and Sheeshon’s tiny palm in the other. They dared not break 
hold of one another.
The beast leaped toward the trio. Hunt tried to retreat from it, but his feet 
tangled with Sheeshon. They both fell.
Rodricko was left a step ahead of them, frozen in terror. Sy-wen, knocked to her 
knees herself, reached to snag the boy from the beast’s path, but the monster 
was already in the air, driving down upon the ashen boy.
With a high scream on his lips, the lad thrust his only weapon toward the 
monster: his fiery flower.
“Roddie!” Sheeshon yelled in terror.
Kast bounded down the strand, but he knew he’d be too late.
The massive beast landed atop the boy.
“Roddie!”
But instead of being crushed, the boy remained standing, wrapped inside the 
beast who was now no more than a smoke-sculpted version of itself. Then even 
these features wafted away into a vague cloud.
Inside the smoke puff, Rodricko’s flower shone with a fierce fire, petals peeled 
back from its heart. Then the smoke seemed to draw into its blaze, sucked into 
the flower’s heart—and Rodricko stood unharmed in the sand, holding the flower.
Sy-wen pulled him into her arms. “Rodricko, are you all right?”
Kast stalked to them as Hunt and Sheeshon gained their feet. He watched for 
other attackers.
Sy-wen spoke. “The flower’s magick saved him.”
Kast grumbled deep in his chest. Or perhaps it was the boy himself. His 
bloodline is shared with that of his mother, a Grim wraith.
Sy-wen nodded. “The magick of the island’s twisted smoke must have quickened the 
dread parts of his bloodline; it draws the essence from a living being.”
As the smo’te drew Ragnar’tfrom me.
“And the simaltra’s essence from me.”
Kast surveyed the beach, as wary of the magick seeping like fever sweat from the 
mountain as of any lurking beasts.
A crack of distant thunder suddenly split the quiet. The ground shook under 
their feet, and thunder pealed again.
Kast swung his neck eastward. Flares of brilliance crackled from around the 
shoulder of the mountain.
“What’s happening?” Sy-wen asked.
The elv’in ships are attacking the beast in the gate. The battle begins.
Hunt explained their plan as the thunder rumbled on, but Kast kept his focus on 
the landscape around them.
“If they’re attacking,” Sy-wen said, “we’d best get Hunt to one of the smoke 
chutes. There’s a seepage just up the beach. I discovered it while searching the 
shoreline.”
You were supposed to stay hidden, Kast scolded, now understanding how the 
creatures had found her.
Sy-wen frowned at him, then led the way.
He rumbled a heavy sigh. Sy-wen was never one to follow instructions. But he 
could not complain—if she had not disobeyed her own mother, the two would never 
have met.
Sy-wen marched around an outcropping to where a small crevice spewed a thin 
column of ash and smoke.
As Kast stood guard, Hunt shoved a hand into the smoke. The effect was 
immediate. A gasp shuddered up from his heels, shaking his frame. Sheeshon, who 
still held his hand, was thrown back.
Hunt dropped to his hands and knees, moaning. Then for an endless span, he 
spewed his belly into the sands. Blood trailed from his lips. And still he 
remained hunched, heaving, covered in sweat, shaking, while the children clung 
to Sy-wen.
Finally, Hunt sat back on his heels, wiping his face on his forearm.
“Hunt?” Sy-wen asked tentatively.
He simply nodded. Sheeshon broke out of Sy-wen’s arms and rushed to Hunt. “The 
worms are gone!”
Are we sure? Kast silently asked Sy-wen.
/ thin’t we should trust Sheeshon. She would know. Sy-wen faced him, her eyes 
shining with warmth. As you knew with me.
Kast stared into her eyes. How he longed for her touch, to be transformed back 
into a man, to hold her in his arms. The same desire shone in Sy-wen’s eyes. But 
the dangers here were too great. The dragon was needed as guardian over them 
all. They dared not risk it.
Finally, Hunt rose—wobbly, but he regained his footing quickly.
The distant pounding of thunder was now almost constant. With the others safe, 
an anxiety to find out what was happening grew in Kast, stoked by the tremble in 
the ground below and the rumbles from the skies above.
The dragons should be here soon to take you all to safety, Kast told his wards.
“Hunt and the children, maybe,” Sy-wen answered, her back to him. She swung 
around, holding the bag sent from Master Edyll. She pulled out a long, 
shimmering garment. “It’s a sharkskin bodysuit,” she explained, “used by my 
people for deepwater diving. With the gloves and hood, it covers the entire 
body.” In addition, she pulled out a long belt, fastened with numerous small 
starfishlike creatures. He recognized them as stunners, tiny paralyzing weapons 
used by the mer’ai.
Kast was bewildered as Sy-wen quickly slithered into the skintight suit.
She stretched into one of the gloves. “Master Edyll knew I wouldn’t want to 
leave you.” She touched his nose with her gloved fingers.
He flinched back, expecting the explosion of magick, but nothing happened. He 
remained a dragon.
“With the suit, I can ride atop you.”
There is no need, he argued. / can still be a dragon without you.
She simply frowned at him again. “I’m going.” She yanked on her other glove. 
“And dragon or not, I’d like to see you stop me.”
Though a part of him wanted to argue further, deeper down he was relieved. After 
being separated half the day, he was loath to part from her again.
Before any further words could be exchanged, Hunt pointed to the lagoon. 
“Dragons!”
A pair of jade seadragons surged through the shallows, rising with noisy 
exhalations of breath. The riders spat out breathing tubes. “Hurry!” one called. 
“The path through the Crown grows more heated with every passing moment.”
“What’s happening?” Hunt called, splashing forward.
The rider shook his head. “No time. We must be off.”
Kast’s heightened senses registered their fear. Eyes kept glancing eastward. 
Their apprehension flowed into him.
Hunt gathered up Sheeshon and Rodricko and aimed for one of the dragons. But 
Sheeshon wiggled free. “No, wait!” She dropped to the shallow water, then 
reached back up to Rodricko. She grabbed his flowered branch, seemingly 
oblivious to the fact that a moment ago the tiny object had slain a beast a 
hundred times larger than she.
She lifted the branch, studying it, then lifted back a petal to reveal a small 
bud sheltered under the larger main flower. She fingered it delicately. No 
larger than a thumb, its purple leaves were tightly closed.
Kast frowned inwardly. The bud had not been there earlier; Kast was sure of it. 
He had carried the stem himself. It must have budded during the play of magick 
earlier. He feared for the girl touching it and sounded a grumbled warning.
He was ignored. Sheeshon pinched the bud between her fingers and simply tore it 
free.
“Hey!” Rodricko yelled at her. “That’s mine!”
Sheeshon sneered at him. “You don’t need two flowers, Roddie! You’re just being 
a grubby hog.”
“I am not a grubby hog!”
Sheeshon stalked over to Sy-wen. “Here.” She placed the closed bud in Sy-wen’s 
gloved hand.
“What do you want me to do with it?” Sy-wen asked.
Sheeshon shrugged. “It’s yours. Rodricko needs to learn to share. Mader Geel 
said so.”
“She did not!” Rodricko blasted back at her. “You’re the grubby hog!”
Hunt collected back his charges as the two continued to argue. He passed 
Rodricko to one of the riders and climbed behind the other with
Sheeshon. The riders showed their wards how to use the air pods. Hunt lifted an 
arm in farewell, and the two dragons receded into the deeper waters and vanished 
away.
Sy-wen crossed to Kast, tucking the petaled bud in a pocket. “It is time we were 
off, too.”
Again he longed for a moment to hold her in his arms, but thunder still echoed, 
and new noises intruded: the crash of boulders and horns of wars. The catapults 
aboard the Dre’rendi ships were engaging—but what did they face?
Sy-wen climbed atop Kast, settling her legs around the base of his neck. He felt 
the warmth of her skin through her thin suit, through his thick scale. “Are you 
ready?” she whispered.
A rumble built in his chest.
“Then fly, my dragon, fly.”
He bunched his legs and obeyed, winging upward with a burst of muscle and speed. 
Through their bond—dragon and rider—he sensed the flush of her exhilaration. She 
leaned closer, her warmth melting her into his heart, her sensations blurring 
with his own.
Their two bodies became one. Was this what it was lit^efor Ragnar’k? No wonder 
the dragon loved her so.
Kast wound on a rising thermal, spiraling up from the beach. The world spread 
before them.
To the east, he spotted five of the Thunderclouds. As he watched, a burst of 
lightning crackled down from one of the ships’ keels to strike below, but he was 
not yet high enough to see the target. A shoulder of the mountain still blocked 
his view to the dockworks.
Off to the south, the Dre’rendi fleet lay outside the rocky Crown. War machines 
snapped with sharp thunking twangs, casting rocks and flaming barrels of pitch 
over the shoals to the shadowed shores. Other smaller ships darted through the 
gap in the broken Crown to take up positions in the lagoon, aided by a surge of 
dragons at the lead.
What are they fighting? Sy-wen asked, echoing his own thoughts.
He climbed higher, gliding up over the shoulder. Then the beseiged southern port 
came into view.
The lurker in the gate had indeed been driven out of hiding and into the open. 
Sy-wen gasped.
The oily darkness flowed and rolled over the ramshackle township, pouring 
through the streets, a living pool of blackness. It spread out in a thousand 
streams, feeding along the dockworks and piers, rippling into the lagoon’s murky 
waters. Half its bulk had already spread along the shore and into the lagoon.
And still it oozed outward and along the shores.
“What is it?” Sy-wen asked.
The answer came soon enough. With a rippling convulsion along its bulk, an army 
appeared out of the darkness: men, beasts, and monsters. They shed their 
darkness, stepping forth, birthed out of the oily beast. Only thin tethers of 
blackness remained, attaching each soldier to its master.
From the lagoon, hundreds of ships suddenly rose from the watery depths, tangled 
in masses of black snakes. Dead men rose from the algae-covered decks, trailing 
black umbilici, slaves to their master.
“An army of the dead,” Sy-wen mumbled, horrified.
Then, worst of all, from the midst of the shrouded township, another ship lifted 
from its wet grave, its hull caved in, its keel cracked. Kast recognized the 
missing Thundercloud. It rose now, not upon the elemental glow of its keel, but 
upon a twisted pillar of oily darkness. Upon its decks, too, sailors slowly 
stood: elv’in trailing black tethers, slaves now.
“How can we defeat a legion that’s already dead?”
On the shores, a flow of creatures poured out of the black womb of the oily 
creature, all of Blackhall, slaves to the darkness: one army, one purpose.
And still the flows of damnation rolled forth from the gate.
Sy-wen spoke his own heart. “We’re doomed.”
“Hurry, men!” Tyrus yelled as he raced his mare over the last of the Black Road, 
risking a glance behind him.
The tunnel of d’warf statues wound back across the volcanic span. Fletch, Hurl, 
and Blyth followed on their frothing, wild-eyed mounts, chased in turn by Sticks 
on foot. Beyond the giant pirate, the remainder of the d’warf legions kept 
steady pace. Despite the bloody run and carnage, the soldiers had not lost a 
step. Watching them this day, Tyrus understood how the d’warf armies had been so 
critical to the Dark Lord’s conquest of the lands of Alasea. They were a tide of 
muscle, steel, and determination, impossible to turn aside.
Riding past the last of the stone d’warves, Tyrus burst from the granite passage 
and galloped the last stretch of open stone that lay before the Northern Gate. 
Just past the threshold, a solid iron gate blocked the way into the mountain, 
lowered earlier as it grew clear to the hidden gatekeepers that the d’warf army 
would span the Black Road.
As Tyrus rode toward the iron gate, skal’tum screamed, sensing their prey 
escaping, but they were kept back by d’warf archers positioned with crossbows in 
the shadow of the gate.
Free of the tunnel, Fletch added his own arrows to the bolts, taking out a 
skal’tum overhead. It tumbled to the rocky shoals below.
Galloping under the deadly volley, Tyrus reached the massive iron door and slid 
from his saddle. While he might ignore his exhaustion, his body could not. He 
fell to his knees, then his hands. Sweat streamed from his face.
His hill horse nickered and ran in tight circles to the side.
The world swam around him for a moment. Hands grabbed him and hauled him up. He 
glanced to right and left: Sticks and Blyth. “I’m fine,” he mumbled. “My legs 
are just horse sore.”
“Sure they are,” Blyth said snidely. “Though your hands might be black as stone, 
your face is pale as my bare arse.”
Tyrus smiled sickly. “Thanks for that comparison. As if this day wasn’t horrible 
enough.”
Sticks stood over him. “We’re safe for the moment. Rest and gather yourself.”
Tyrus looked beyond the giant. Hurl and Fletch had joined the d’warf archers in 
keeping the remaining skal’tum at bay. More and more of the d’warf legions 
poured from the tunnel to aid in the defense before the gate.
Wennar lumbered up to them. The older d’warf leader looked hardly winded. But 
his eyes marked the terror of the crossing, and his bright armor was stained 
with scorch marks from the dripping gore of the skal’tum. “What now?” he asked, 
glaring up at the solid wall of iron. “We’ve won here, but to what end? This 
gate is thicker through than the reach of my arm.”
Tyrus nodded. “We have to get through. The other half of the Alasean army 
already wages war on the Southern Gate.”
Wennar slammed a steel-gloved fist on the door in frustration. The clang echoed 
back to them.
Blyth shook his head. “Why didn’t I think of that? We’ll just knock and ask 
politely to be allowed inside. I’m sure they’ll oblige.”
Wennar frowned at the first mate, while the screeches of monsters wailed behind 
them. “We can’t hold this post forever.”
Tyrus stared dully at the iron wall, too tired to come up with an answer.
Sticks nodded toward the gate. “Captain, can you change iron to granite as 
easily as you’ve done with flesh?”
“I… I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “But even if I could, I don’t have 
the reserves for something this size.”
His words did not seem to faze the giant. Sticks turned to Wennar. “D’warves are 
the best miners in the world.”
The d’warf general swelled his chest. “I defy any to say otherwise.”
“And you’ve hammers here? And pikes?”
Wennar nodded.
“Bring them to us.”
Wennar glanced to Tyrus with a frown.
Understanding grew in Tyrus. He nodded to the d’warf leader. “Do as he says.”
Wennar turned, bellowing orders in the d’warvish tongue.
With a sigh, Tyrus swung back to the door. “I still don’t know if I have enough 
reserve.”
“Could you draw back some magick from the d’warves who are already stone?” 
Sticks asked.
“Not after they were brave enough to face the petrifying magick a second time. 
For now, they’re safer as stone. If we survive this, I’ll bring them back.”
Sticks simply grunted. With no other answer, Tyrus lifted his hands, still black 
from the backwash of his spell casting. He placed dark palms on gray iron. 
Closing his eyes, he pushed his energies into the iron. Slipping into that 
otherworldly state, he willed metal to stone.
Sounds muted; even his heart seemed to slow. But he felt petrifying force 
pumping out of him with each faltering beat. Before long, he knew that if he 
cast much more, his heart would slow to a stop, becoming stone, too.
Strangely, he found he didn’t care. A part of him quailed at this lack of 
concern, but he could not muster a challenge to the obstinate disinterest of 
true granite. Or maybe the torpor was simply his own heart, and the endless 
doubts that settled with the same weight as stone. It was all too much. He could 
not do this. He was not his father’s son.
Then he was suddenly ripped out of this stony lassitude. The world snapped back 
to him with screams, bellows, clash of steel—and pain. His arms burned with a 
deep fire. A moan escaped his lips, flying away like a frightened bird.
His vision focused back on Sticks, dragging him back from the iron gate. “That’s 
enough, Captain!” the giant yelled.
Tyrus found his voice. “Did I… did it… ?”
“Look for yourself,” Blyth said, standing back out of his way.
The gray iron was marred by a swath of black stone wide and high enough to ride 
a horse through. Already, Wennar’s d’warves set to work at shattering through 
the stone.
Tyrus stared up at the wall of iron. They would be entering Blackhall. He had 
done it.
“Your arms, Captain.”
Tyrus saw that from his elbows on down, he was solid granite, black and 
unpolished. But with the painful tingle of blood reentering a sleeping limb, his 
own blood drove off the magick. Slowly stone turned back to flesh.
Blyth was at his side now, giving the d’warves room to swing their hammers. “You 
were stone all the way to your shoulders—even your neck.”
“We were afraid we’d lose you,” Sticks added.
Tyrus remembered his slowing heart, his lack of will to fight the torpor of true 
stone. He knew how close he had been to losing himself. But instead, he mumbled, 
“It’s nothing.”
Behind him, the clang of steel exploded into a crash of rock. He swung around. 
The window of stone in the wall of iron had been shattered. Working quickly, the 
d’warves cleared the debris as the last stubborn chunks of granite shattered 
from the iron frame under skilled hammer blows.
Wennar sounded the horn, signaling his lieutenants to be ready to march. Tyrus 
and his men remounted their steeds. Tyrus kicked his horse forward. If there was 
a trap laid beyond, let him face it with his magick.
He ducked slightly to pass through the hole in the gate. He held his breath, not 
knowing what to expect, sword in one hand, the other on his reins.
He was not prepared for what he saw.
He straightened as he passed through the gate. The others followed, gasping as 
they clopped slowly into the main hall of the Dark Lord’s lair.
Blyth voiced his own sentiments. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”
His first mate’s description hardly encompassed the wonders before them. The 
hall was as high as the gate itself, extending forever forward, but not in a 
stark straight course. It meandered invitingly into the distance.
From Harlequin Quail’s maps, this one hall tunneled through the entire mountain, 
connecting the two gates and widening in the middle into a chamber described as 
“very, very large.”
Tyrus gaped around him. He could not imagine anything larger. It was like riding 
into a glass-blown work of art. There was not a single corner or sharp edge 
anywhere. Everything was curves of polished black glass. Spiraled columns curled 
from floor to ceiling. Tiers and balconies, festooned in delicate glass flowers 
and winding garlands, rose along both walls. And throughout the hall, torches 
blazed, prisming into colors beyond description, turning black-glass flowers 
into shining bouquets. A short way down the hall, twin glass sculptures erupted 
from the floor. One shone with a thousand colors of azure, while its twin 
reflected only crimsons and reds, a fire to the other’s ice. Everywhere there 
were such wonders of light and glass.
Tyrus stared all around, not daring to blink lest he miss something.
Sticks finally spoke, breaking the charm of the hall upon them. “No one’s here.”
A part of Tyrus had registered the same. Their steps were the only noise echoing 
down the brilliant hall. The oddity drew him back to the duty at hand.
He swung around. Through the hole in the gate, the d’warf army marched into the 
hall. Wennar, ever practical, was assigning guards to the position and ordering 
others to find the iron gate’s mechanism and disable it—with the gate kept 
closed, it would be easy to defend the small window and guard their backs.
After a few final instructions, they were under way again. Tyrus led the party.
“Where is everyone?” Blyth asked, walking his horse beside Tyrus.
“I don’t know.” The beauty of the place slowly dimmed from his eyes. He 
recognized shops that he would see in any village: cobblers, bakers, tailors. 
And while their windows were full of goods, the shops were empty of both owners 
and patrons.
It was a beautiful graveyard.
Tensions built with each clopping step of his mount. His eyes strained, trying 
to discern a trap. The colors grew garish. The constant reflection went from 
tiresome to addling. But there was no sign of the living.
Tyrus pondered this mystery. It was as if the mountain was hollow, a shell 
around an empty egg. This comparison raised a shudder: another stone egg. But 
what would this one hatch?
According to Xin, their two forces should rendezvous at the large chamber in the 
middle of the concourse. Once united, they would strike downward, into the 
creche of the Dark Lord himself.
Tyrus tried to reach Xin through his silver coin, but the magicks of this cursed 
place confounded his attempts. They were on their own until their forces joined.
As they marched, the winding hall stretched on ahead of them. They clopped 
across glass bridges over chasms that reflected molten fires far below. They 
passed gardens of statuary, like parks inside the mountain. A league passed 
under their hooves, then another. The passage became a blur of light and glass. 
Where was this central chamber?
The few voices that had been speaking or raised in quiet song had long since 
died away. They trudged onward.
But when they finally reached the rallying chamber, they were well into it 
before they realized it. The walls to either side had slowly pulled away, like 
arms opening. The roof arched higher, until it was as if they were no longer in 
a hall. Walls and roof were gone; they marched across a moonless, starless 
plain.
Torches had been posted and planted throughout the floor, a flaming forest that 
spread out in all directions.
Tyrus called a halt to allow the bulk of the d’warf army to join them in the 
chamber. The legion traveling with them numbered in the hundreds, but they 
failed to cover more than the smallest section of the entire floor.
“Over there,” Hurl said from his saddle, pointing an arm.
Tyrus followed his direction. The forest of torches blazed brighter there. He 
unhooked the spyglass from his saddle horn. Through the glass, the blaze grew 
larger, more distinct. It was a massive fire pit, perhaps the center of the 
chamber itself.
He lowered the spyglass and frowned. “Let’s make for the blaze,” he said, 
hanging in his saddle, exhausted.
So they set out again across the vast chamber, moving as a single force, no 
longer restricted by walls. The distances were deceiving. They marched and 
marched, but the fire pit never seemed to grow any closer.
“It’s like sailing toward a mountainous coastline,” Blyth said. “It’s farther 
than it seems at first glance.”
Still, Tyrus refused to relent, and his persistence slowly bore fruit. The fire 
pit grew from a bright glow to a full blaze. The flames came from a hole in the 
floor. It gaped large enough to drop a small castle into its fiery depths. The 
heat kept them from getting too near, but at least the fires would mark their 
position well.
Satisfied, Tyrus called for them to make camp. He climbed from his
° horse and fished through his cloak’s pockets for his silver coin. He should 
try to reach Xin…
Fletch appeared at his side. “The fire smokes,” the Steppeman said in his thick 
accent.
Tyrus noted the worry in his voice and glanced up. “The fire smokes. Most do.”
“Not this one,” Fletch said. “Not until just now.”
Frowning, Tyrus rounded his horse’s flank. The fire pit was shooting vast gouts 
of black fumes from the lapping flames.
“Alert the others,” he ordered Fletch.
As the alarm was raised, Tyrus stared up at the smoke chugging from the fire. 
There was no hole above the pit, no way for the smoke to escape the mountain. 
The cloud of fumes grew thicker, a storm cloud building above them all.
Rumbles of unease sounded around him.
Slowly the cloud unfurled wide, smoky wings and snaked out a long, vaporous 
neck.
Rumbles grew to shouts. Tyrus remained silent, staring. Though the shape was 
vague, more shadow than substance, he knew what was taking shape before him. He 
had heard the story from Xin already.
The name formed on his lips as crimson eyes, full of fury and malice, opened in 
the cloud.
“Ragnar’k.”
With a gasp, Sy-wen jerked upright in her dragon’s saddle as a rip tore open 
inside her and something pushed through the gap. It felt like the touch of the 
simaltra, dark and oily, but with something familiar about the touch—something 
that reached to her heart.
Sy-wen, Kast sent to her, are you all right?
Winds rushed past, blowing back her hood and unfurling her damp hair. Screams 
rose from the war below, but she ignored them all and searched deeper inside 
her, touching the awakening darkness, opening a connection she thought gone. 
Ragnar’t(?
What about him? Kast asked, reading her thoughts. He banked away from the 
fighting, sensing her distress.
Can’t you feel him? she asked. He’s awakened.
I don’t feel anything, but he was bonded to you, not me.
“I feel his rage, smell the smoke,” she said.
Where is he?
“Blackhall…” She knew this with certainty. Letting her eyelids drift closed, she 
cast out her senses along this new path. Images appeared, flickering. She caught 
glimpses of a cavern, flames, and figures in the dark.
A man stepped forward, sword in one hand. The other hand was raised in clear 
threat, fingers blackened and unnatural. As he faced the dragon, Sy-wen 
recognized his rusty blond hair; his mustache; his sea cloak, now stained and 
torn. “Tyrus,” she mumbled.
The pirate prince? Kast asked, intruding.
“He and the d’warves face the shadow of Ragnar’k.”
What of the dragon?
The bond between Sy-wen and Ragnar’k grew stronger with her attention. She read 
her dragon’s heart and despaired. It roiled with dark lusts and raving madness. 
There was no denying the reality. “He’s gone over,” she whispered into the wind. 
“He’s ill’guard to the Dark Lord.” With this realization, her heart broke. Oh, 
my sweet giant…
Her anguish was felt and answered from afar. Bonded… come to me… join with me. 
The thoughts came from Ragnar’k, but they felt more like the simaltra. Black, 
oily, full of the promise of pain. There was no love, only ancient bonds of 
blood and death. Come share the taste of raw meat torn from bone, listen to the 
wails as my fangs rip the entrails from soft bellies… Come join with me, my 
bonded.
She pulled her mind away, but she could not sever the connection. Now awakened, 
the dragon was linked to her.
Ragnar’k sensed her retreat. Dragon laughter followed after her. We’ll always be 
one.
Sy-wen opened her eyes. Her cheeks ran with tears. Not even the winds could dry 
them swiftly enough.
Sy-wen? It was Kast again. His sending was a warmth to melt the ice from her 
veins, but shivering, she knew Ragnar’k was right. She was again chained to a 
demon.
“We have to stop him,” she moaned.
Ragnar’k? How?
She could hardly think, her heart torn. The ancient bonds between dragon and 
rider, once formed, wound down to the bones of each. The loss of a dragon would 
often drive its rider into a despair from which there was no end. To lose your 
bonded was to lose yourself. But Sy-wen knew she had no choice. “Ragnar’k must 
be slain,” she said aloud, needing to hear the words from her own lips.
Wit ch Star
She pulled up her sharkskin hood, resolved to do what no rider had ever done in 
the history of the mer’ai. She would slay her bonded.
Kast banked over the battle below.
As the world tilted on a wingtip, the war appeared below in all its carnage. The 
army of the dead, controlled by the black beast, engaged the forces of the 
mer’ai, the Dre’rendi, and the elv’in. It was a battle they could not win. As 
each ship, dragon, or warrior was slain, the monster would flow over the newly 
dead, enslaving them. With each death, the Dark Lord’s force grew.
Their only defense proved to be fire.
As the battle had waged, it grew clear that flames could burn the oily tethers 
connecting the dead to their master; once severed, the puppets fell limp and 
lifeless. Now volleys of flaming arrows sailed through the gloom, while barrels 
of flaming pitch were cast from catapults in fiery arcs to explode amidst the 
flowing creature.
Still, the monster remained a tide of darkness, seeming without end. Where one 
section burned, another flowed forth.
It was a stalemate between living and dead. But the standoff could not last 
forever. Eventually the barrels of pitch would run out, the supply of arrows 
would dwindle—and the black beast would roll over them all.
“We can’t wait for the others to break through,” Sy-wen said. “Rag-nar’k moves 
even now upon Tyrus and the d’warves.”
What would you have us do?
“The fleets have lured the monster from the gate. With the way open, I say we 
chance a flight through the entrance.”
Alone?
“We must try. We are of no use in this fight, but we can be vital to defending 
Tyrus and the others.”
Kast remained silent, but Sy-wen knew he would agree. He was at heart a warrior, 
a Bloodrider. We must be swift, he finally said.
“As the wind,” she echoed back to him.
Preparing himself, Kast rode a rising warm draft to gain height. Soon they were 
well above the fighting, near the low clouds. The slopes of black stone steamed 
from inner fires. Are you ready? he sent to her.
“Go,” she whispered, leaning closer to his neck. “Just go.”
Tilting forward, Kast tucked in his wings. Dragon and rider became a dark arrow 
pointed at the heart of Blackhall. They fell toward the fighting, gaining speed. 
Winds screamed past her covered ears. She vaguely sensed the ankle flaps 
tightening, keeping her seated in place.
The world swelled under them. The dockworks were a flaming ruin. The township 
ran with rivers of black flesh. Everywhere, the clash of steel divided the 
living from the dead. The winds reeked of burning flesh, mixed with the rotting 
stench of the beast itself and the sulfurous brimstone of the volcanic mountain. 
Sy-wen held her breath, a prayer trapped in her chest.
Then as they flew over the bulk of the dread beast, Sy-wen again felt the buzz 
in her skull, an echo of the simaltra that threatened to fill the empty spaces 
left by the tentacled creature from the egg. Sy-wen gasped at the intrusion. She 
was a lock that the evil here was attempting to pick.
Sy-wen?
Through their bond, she sensed Kast felt none of this. So why her, and not him? 
Then a thought arose… an answer that grew to certainty in her heart. Her blood 
ran cold. She stared again at the beast, studying its snaking tethers, its 
mastery of puppetry. She now knew what she was seeing. She knew why the Dark 
Lord had been so desperate to enslave Ragnar’k.
“No…” she moaned as they plummeted toward the monstrosity here.
Sy-wen? Kast’s flight began to bobble, to lose focus. His worry for her was 
causing him to falter.
“Don’t stop! Make for the gate!” She instilled her words with fire.
Kast obeyed. His wings sprang out, catching their fall and turning it into a 
steep sweep toward the open gate, flying over the rippling darkness below. The 
monster noted their passage and undulated more vigorously under them.
Sy-wen’s head ached, her vision narrowed to the yawning gate before them. Beyond 
the threshold, fiery light glowed back at them. Torches perhaps?
Kast pulled up to pass just under the arch. Sy-wen’s body pressed into the 
dragon under her. Below, the sea of oily flesh surged and eddied. Ahead, a 
tangle of tentacles shot skyward, attempting to block their passage.
Sy-wen knew that to brush that black flesh was to be enslaved. Fly, she urged 
her love. Fly like the true dragon of my heart.
Kast put all his love into the artistry of his flight. As they came upon the 
tangle, he swung atop one wingtip, then the other, wending through the grasping 
tentacles. He swerved and dodged through the threat, at one point rolling 
through the air in a spiral.
The beast might sense her, but it was blind to the dragon, unable to match its 
speed or careening flight. In triumph they broke past the beast and shot through 
the gate.
The hall beyond was huge, cavernous as the gate itself. It was a chute of melted 
glass lit with a thousand torches. But beyond the gate, the hall was deserted. 
Sy-wen sensed that the Dark Lord had emptied the entire island to man the 
monster back at the gate and to fuel the last of his arcane acts. Nothing lived 
here now but the Black Heart’s dread purpose. All subterfuge at governing had 
fallen away, burned up in this final cause.
But to what end? What did the Dark Lord plan under the first full moon of 
midsummer?
Kast flew down the hall, maneuvering over bridges or under catwalks with fine 
movements of his wings’ edges.
Bac’t at the gate, Kast sent to her, you knew something, something you were 
afraid to spea’t.
“The creature… I know what it is.”
What?
“A giant simaltra. A monstrous version of the smaller ones that possessed Hunt 
and me. I recognized its touch, the way it ate at my will. I think that’s one 
reason the Dark Lord wanted Ragnar’k out of the way. The dragon’s roar, ripe 
with magicks, could damage the creature, as it did the smaller ones back in the 
dungeon.”
Once captured, Kast added after a stunned moment, the dragon’s magic’t could be 
used against us, too.
“As is being done right now. Ragnar’k challenges Lord Tyrus and the others. I 
don’t think the prince or the others have the magick to fight a demon dragon 
made of smoke.”
Will we fare any better? Kast asked.
She remained silent as they winged down the long, dark hall, as if down the 
throat of some dark Leviathan that sought to swallow the world.
“We may not have magick,” Sy-wen finally said, “but we have something more 
potent.”
What’s that?
She narrowed her eyes. “We have each other—and the bonds that tie all three of 
us together.”
Can those bonds withstand the magic’t of the Dar’t Lord?
Sy-wen stared down the long hall, unsure. Her voice was faint. “Pray that they 
will, my love. Pray they will.”
Er’ril rode down through the mists in a rope sling. The world had vanished 
around them. The edges of the pit were half a league away, impossible to discern 
through the swirling fog. Only their party was visible, clustered together on 
the ropes lowered from the belly of the Windsprite.
Elena swung at his side, wrapped in her cloak, near enough for him to reach out 
and touch. They had been dropping for an endless time; was there any bottom to 
this pit?
Even sounds failed to reach them. As they had dropped away from the ship, the 
echoes of battle—screeches, bellows, roars, and cries—had faded along with the 
world. The mists seemed to wipe everything away.
Er’ril studied the others, spread around him like so many ripe fruits on a vine. 
No one spoke. The mists were strangely warm, dampening skin and clothes to an 
oily sheen. They reeked of sulfur and burned blood.
Er’ril glanced upward. The ship had vanished, lost in the cursed fog. Earlier, 
the Windsprite had dropped to the level of the mists. From the stern hold, ropes 
and pulleys lowered the party through the belly hatches. They had dropped away 
unseen—Joach’s magick had worked its illusion.
Elena’s brother swung nearby, clutching his staff. The length of gray petrified 
wood shone as pale as new snow, though streaked through with veins of crimson, 
Joach’s own blood.
Around him, the others watched the mists, packs in place, ready for an attack. 
Weapons glinted in the gloom. Tol’chuk bore a hammer, as did Magnam. Harlequin 
Quail twiddled a dagger in his fingers, looking almost bored. Jaston, Fardale, 
and Thorn all bore short swords. Meric and Nee’lahn, hanging side by side, 
remained weaponless, bearing only the magick inside them.
Witch Star
“The moon rises,” Elena whispered beside him. Though her words were no more than 
a breathless utterance, all heard. Sounds swirled strangely within this 
unnatural cloud.
Er’ril swung to face her. She opened her cloak enough to reveal where the Blood 
Diary was tucked. The top of the gilt rose poked above the pocket’s edge, 
glowing as bright as a star.
Frowning, Er’ril glanced upward again. “But the sun still shines,” he mumbled.
She nodded, closing her cloak. “A fool’s moon.” She huddled back to herself. “I 
dare not open the book until there is solid footing.”
He nodded. The magick of Cho’s release could alert whatever lurkers hid in the 
mists below. It was best to wait to consult the spirit of the book until they 
were safer. Hanging on ropes, they felt exposed, regardless of the thick mists 
that hid them.
Jaston spoke from the side, sheathing his sword. “Cassa returns.” Off to the 
left, a small winged shape appeared, spiraling up from below. She flapped and 
glided up to Jaston, settling into the swamper’s arms. She was clearly 
exhausted, her tiny face pale, her wings trembling.
“Cassa?” Jaston whispered, drawing a damp strand from the child’s face.
“My connection is thread thin,” the child said in a voice far older than her 
small frame. “I don’t know how much longer I can maintain this hold.”
“What have you seen?” Er’ril asked.
The child’s eyes flicked to him. “The mists end in another forty spans or so, 
opening into clear air. I dared not stay for very long.”
“What did you see?” Elena asked. All eyes were on Jaston and the child, but 
Er’ril kept a watch around them.
“The mists swirl about the height of a castle tower above the bottom of the pit. 
Empty rock lies below, but it appears natural, not dug with tools. I spotted 
stalagmites and outcroppings that seem to have been there for ages.”
Er’ril spoke. “They must have dug down and broken into the cavern system under 
the ancient school of the Chyric mages.”
“Where the rock’goblins lived,” Elena mumbled.
“I saw no goblins,” Cassa said faintly. “There was nothing moving down below.”
“Nothing’s there?” Er’ril asked. He frowned deeply. Could all of this have been 
for nothing, a trick to lure Elena away from the true battle at Blackhall? 
Er’ril’s eyes settled with suspicion on the small form of Harlequin Quail, but 
the man wore a frown that matched his own.
|ames Clemens
The swamp child spoke again. “The pit lay empty, but I spied a tunnel leaving 
the space. It glowed fiercely with a most strange light.”
Er’ril crinkled his brow. So something was down there. “We’ll proceed 
cautiously. We all must be alert.”
Mumbles of assent answered him, but Harlequin quipped, “And here I was planning 
on going in blindfolded.”
Er’ril ignored the man. As they continued to drop, winding down through the 
mists, even the gloomy glow above faded away. They traveled through darkness for 
an endless stretch, until slowly a silvery shine lit the mists under them. “Be 
ready,” he whispered to the others, as a freshening breeze washed across his 
damp skin.
Then they were dropping into open air. Below appeared a cavern floor, littered 
with broken pillars of rock, boulders, and jagged stalagmites. Just at the 
edges, Er’ril could make out the lowermost step of the excavation here. They had 
reached the bottom.
And as Cassa Dar had described, the floor remained empty. But Er’ril did not 
relax his guard: There were plenty of places for creatures to hide. And directly 
ahead, a tunnel cast out a silvery sheen almost too bright to look upon. It was 
a constant, substantial light that drew stark shadows across the cavern floor.
Er’ril pointed to a pile of boulders. “We should—”
His rope sling jerked, almost tumbling him from his seat. He clutched at the 
rope with his free hand. The others were similarly bobbled; Elena swung against 
him. He grabbed for her, but she jostled away.
“What’s happening?” Jaston called out. His swamp child, startled by the swaying, 
now winged around him in panicked circles.
“Something’s attacking our ropes!” Magnam answered.
As if confirming his words, they all began plummeting toward the stone floor, 
not as fast as if their ropes had been sliced, but much more quickly than their 
slow descent a moment ago. And with each breath, they fell faster and faster.
“Watch the rocks!” Er’ril yelled as the floor flew up toward them.
Like so many crashing boulders, they struck the floor. Cries arose from among 
the party. Er’ril took the brunt of his landfall with his legs, then rolled to 
his shoulder, dispersing the momentum of his landing. He was on his feet in his 
next breath. He spotted Elena a few steps away. Blood dribbled from her 
hairline. He rushed to her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Just a scrape. I’m fine.” She wiped at the blood and stared around 
the boulder-littered floor. “The others…”
Meric ran up with Nee’lahn. Both seemed unharmed.
“Everyone back!” the elv’in called, his frantic eyes on the mists above. The 
ropes continued to snake out of the sky, whistling downward. “The ropes weren’t 
cut! The ship—the Windsprite—it falls!”
Er’ril gaped upward as Meric’s words struck him. Then he grabbed Elena by the 
arm. “Hurry!” he cried. “Make for the walls!”
They all fled through the forest of stony pillars and jumbled rocks. From above 
came the ominous sound of splintering wood and the snap of sails in a gale. It 
grew to fill the pit.
And still they ran. Thorn and Fardale had slipped into half-wolf form, bounding 
away. Er’ril saw Joach helping Jaston; the swamper limped on one leg, his face 
gone greenish. Past them, Tol’chuk loped with Magnam at his side.
A crash echoed, sounding directly overhead.
“Seek cover!” Er’ril shouted.
He whirled Elena behind a boulder, sliding to his knees, pulling her under him. 
He covered his head just as he caught a glimpse of the broken bulk of the ship 
crashing out of the mists, sails ripped and napping like the arms of a 
plummeting man.
He ducked as the explosion of wood on stone blasted across the pit. Timber and 
debris shattered out, striking the walls with splintered impacts. Just past 
their boulder, a huge wooden pulley wheel bounced and rolled by. It smashed 
against the wall, shattering to tinder.
As the echoes of the crash died away, Er’ril jerked to his feet, peering past 
the boulder. In the center of the pit, the blasted ruins of the proud windship 
lay half hidden in a plume of silt and rock dust. Small fires already licked 
greedily at the broken timbers, ignited from shattered barrels of oil. The iron 
keel was a twisted arm protruding from the broken field.
The others rose from hiding places, faces pale with shock. They slowly gathered, 
picking their way across the debris, shaken and bruised. Meric looked especially 
stricken.
“If any of us survive this,” Er’ril mumbled, stepping to his side, “we’ll bury 
the crew with honors.”
“If there be any bodies here,” Tol’chuk said. The og’re stepped forward, 
dragging the upper torso of a monster, one wing still attached to a shoulder. 
The beast’s bald head, peaked ears, and fanged muzzle were well known to all.
“SkaPtum,” Elena said.
Joach blanched, Jaston still leaning on his shoulder. “My illusion must have 
failed.”
Elena shook her head. “It lasted long enough to get us here.”
“Or trap us here,” Harlequin Quail said. He stared at the ruins. “We can’t say 
we exactly dropped in unannounced.”
Confirming this, screams echoed through the mists from above.
Er’ril stepped forward. “To the tunnel! Now!” He led them off.
As they quickly marched, Jaston pointed upward. “Cassa Dar has gone to scout the 
tunnel ahead, to see what lies at its end.”
Er’ril spotted the small winged child gliding toward the entrance.
As Jaston hobbled to the side, Elena mumbled, “We already know what lies at the 
end, don’t we?”
Er’ril saw the same recognition in Meric, Fardale, and Tol’chuk. There was no 
forgetting this tunnel.
“We’ve come full circle,” Meric said in hushed tones. “All of us again, missing 
only the mountain man this time.”
Er’ril nodded. Of the original gathering, only Krai was absent, his war charger 
left behind at the og’re encampment. Er’ril stared ahead. Long ago, at the end 
of this tunnel, the group had discovered the crystal statue of De’nal, the 
boy-mage who had been one of the three to give their lives to the forging of the 
Blood Diary. That statue was gone, its Chyric essence given up to ignite the 
book’s magick. Now, Er’ril sensed with icy certainty that a new statue lay 
beyond this tunnel—not of crystal, but of black stone laced with forked veins of 
silver.
An ebon’stone statue… the last Weirgate.
“Full circle,” Er’ril repeated as they reached the threshold to the tunnel, all 
of them limned in the silvery light. Elena’s hand found his. They had walked 
this path together once before, a girl-child and her knight. Now they would face 
it together again, joined by more than just oaths and prophecy.
Elena’s fingers squeezed his. He felt the love in the small gesture.
Down the tunnel, a winged shape disappeared into the glare.
Er’ril stepped to follow. “It’s time to end this.”
As THEY STARTED DOWN THE PASSAGE, MoGWEED SAT WITHIN HIS DARK
prison, staring out with Fardale. With everyone distracted by the descent into 
the pit and the fall of the windship, no one noticed the strange twist of 
circumstances.
Fardale marched with Thorn, their senses focused outward. They kept their bodies 
fluid, ready to transform at a moment’s notice. And with Fardale’s attention on 
the tunnel, even he failed to note the change in their condition.
Mogweed grinned darkly. No walls confined him now. He could control the body the 
pair wore. To confirm this, he carefully shifted Fardale’s foot to trip on a 
loose piece of shale. His brother, ever agile, kept his balance and continued 
on, none the wiser.
I am free! Mogweed realized, barely containing his glee.
On this strange day, when the full moon and the sun shared the same sky, the 
walls between the two brothers had fallen. It was neither true night, nor true 
day. Both sun and moon ruled the skies, as the two brothers did this one form.
But only one brother was aware of the change. And as Mogweed had learned long 
ago, there was much power in secrets.
He settled into his cell. He would wait until the time was right, and watch for 
a moment when one last betrayal could win his true freedom.
/ will be free of you yet, Brother.
Cassa Dar lay in her bed in Castle Drakk, a shadow of her former self. 
Maintaining the connection to her creation far to the north had taxed her body 
and spirit. Her skin sagged, her color had paled, and even her breathing was a 
ragged rasp. But worst of all, she felt her ties to her own lands fraying. Her 
well of elemental powers was running dry.
Day and night, children came to her chamber, feeding her, bringing water and 
wine. But there was no balm for the ebb of her spiritual energy. She was spread 
too thin, stretched across half the world.
She closed her eyes and drifted between the boggy damp of her castle tower and 
the steamy warmth of the shrouded pit. She knew she risked her life in this 
endeavor, but the entire world was in peril. She would not simply wait for the 
end here in her isolated castle. She had spent centuries hiding in her swamps, 
pretending she had a full life with all the creatures of her lands. It was only 
after finding Jaston that she had remembered the world beyond her bogs and 
marshes. And once awakened, she knew she could hide no longer. The Dark Lord had 
enslaved her people and consigned her to this lonely tower. If this was the 
final battle with the fiend, then—risk or not—she would act with all her will 
and substance.
In her castle chamber, she lay as weak as a babe atop her blankets. But far to 
the north, she felt the wind in her wings, the flow of currents through her 
hair, the strength of young muscle and the certainty of firm bone. She glided 
down a tunnel shimmering with silver light.
She knew this light. It bathed her, and for the first time since entering the 
misty pit, her connection to her swamp child grew stronger rather than
I
weaker. The glow was the shine of pure elemental energy, untainted. The swamp 
child flew through the light like a fish through a bright stream.
Through her connection to the child, this energy flowed back to Cassa Dar. She 
sighed in her chamber as the well inside her slowly filled. She had never felt 
such purity. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew where she headed; she had 
read of it in her texts. Ahead lay the confluence of elemental flows, a mixing 
of channels draining from both the Northern and Southern Fangs. It could be 
nothing else.
She was drawn toward the light like a moth to flame. Her essence ran out along 
her connection to join more fully with her swamp child. Without hesitation, she 
shot out the passage and into a vast chamber beyond. The roof arched high 
overhead, while the floor was a great bowl under her. It was a spherical 
chamber, dug from the heart of the granite highlands. Below her, the basin of 
the bowl churned with a whirlpool of silver, two shades of brilliance swirling 
toward the center, stark against the black granite. The pattern reminded her of 
the whorl of mists atop the pit here, a slow eddy spiraling downward.
She wafted out over the glowing basin, a quarter league across. On the far side, 
she could discern dark openings, other tunnels and passages. She also noted that 
the edges of the silver pool were fringed with bleached bones, like so much 
driftwood on a seashore. They were piled high, but the thickest patches were 
washed up near the tunnel entrance.
But her attention drifted from this foulness and focused back on the pool. It 
was empty—except for a dark figure in the exact center—a black well into which 
the swirl of silver drained.
Cassa Dar arced away from it, sensing the danger. Even from this distance, she 
could make out the black wings, spread wide, and the cowled head lifted in 
menace. Without a doubt, it was the Wyvern Weirgate, the last of the foul 
sculptures. She banked back toward the tunnel to report her discoveries when 
movement caught her eye.
She spiraled back around, hovering. A figure labored near the statue. He 
searched about with casual indifference, bending on a knee here, leaning to 
inspect something there. His movements suggested he was unaware of her. She 
narrowed her eyes, focusing her vision.
Maybe it was the clean well of power swelling inside her, but she dared glide a 
bit farther over the swirling bowl for a closer look. It was a mistake.
From her vantage high over the floor, she saw the trap a moment too late, and 
like a fly in a spider’s web, she was caught. With her attention on the whorls 
of silver and the danger at its center, she had failed to note a matching swirl 
of darkness across the bow of the roof, a dark reflection of the one below.
From this black eddy, tendrils of power lashed out and down, snatching her in 
midair. The more she struggled, the tighter the cords wrapped. She was dragged 
toward the roof, caught as firmly as an ant in molasses. She stared toward the 
dark whorl before her. The center, positioned directly over the Wyvern Weirgate, 
was a dark hole in the ceiling, leading to where she didn’t know.
Then she spotted the slight dribble of water trickling out of the hole and 
falling toward the Weirgate below. The hole must extend all the way to the 
surface. But why? To what purpose? Could she escape by that route?
She looked down as she swirled higher in an ever-tightening circle. The figure 
by the statue had stopped its inspection and stared up at her. Closer now, she 
made out the scarred ruin of the man’s face. A stubble of black hair grew out 
from the roiled flesh. He smiled up at her, his eyes burned sockets. He bore a 
staff, a length of pure ebon’stone. Cassa Dar had heard of Shorkan’s burning as 
he fled an Entrapment ring. With certainty, here stood the architect of the trap 
that had snared her, a trap meant to snare the others who followed.
As if to confirm this, he lifted his staff and stirred it through the air. Her 
trapped form spun faster toward the malignant center of the whorl, where 
damnation surely lay.
She knew she should withdraw her connection to the child, sever it before she 
herself was caught, too. But if she broke that thin tether, then she could not 
warn Jaston and the others of the trap set to snare them. That wasn’t an option.
So she did the only other thing she could. She poured more of herself into her 
creation. Shorkan thought he had caught himself a small child of middling 
talents. She meant to see how he dealt with a full wit’ch.
From her bed, she cast out her essence, leaving only the thinnest thread to 
follow back. She flowed in a heartbeat into her creation, filling it with her 
poisonous magicks. The dark tendrils that held her sizzled and frayed from 
contact with the venom oozing from her.
Down below, the smile on the darkmage’s face dimmed to wary confusion. He 
pointed his staff at her, and the tendrils of darkness thrashed, renewing their 
assault.
She ignored the cords and continued to pour herself into her vessel. The child 
grew among the writhing black snakes, maturing from child to woman in a matter 
of breaths. The childish trace of consciousness faded, replaced with her own.
Mama, the child called to her as she faded. Cassa touched her essence. / love 
you, my sweetness. Now sleep.
Then the child was gone.
Below, Shorkan hissed, his words easily reaching her. “Wit’ch! You’ll never 
escape with mere elemental trickery!”
Cassa Dar stared down, a bare span from the whorl’s center. She smiled calmly, 
done with running, done with hiding. “Who said I was escaping, mage r
She opened her mouth and vomited the poison from her belly. It was not only her 
childish form that had matured, but the creature inside her. The swamp child, 
now woman, was nothing but a skin. The reptile inside was her true connection 
here.
Cassa Dar fell out of the trap. Shedding from her skin, she dropped in her true 
form. The king adder, grown to its full length, writhed through the air to land 
in a tangle about the darkmage.
Shorkan screamed as she wrapped tight coils around him, writhing up to face the 
scarred visage. A forked tongue hissed from her lips. She opened her jaws, 
unhinging fangs as long as a dragon’s. Poison flowed from the venom sacs at the 
base of the snake’s skull—and from the core of her being.
She knew she was no match for the darkmage, but she could still strike and do 
damage. She hissed, spitting poison into his face, then struck as he dodged the 
spray. Her fangs sank deep into his neck, pumping all the poison she could 
before he lashed out at her.
Latched to the demon, she felt the venom knock him to his knees, but what would 
have killed an ordinary man in less than a heartbeat, he survived. She heard a 
spell tumble from his lips.
Her coils suddenly ignited with a searing fire. Dark flames flared out from the 
mage—balefire. She knew her death was but a moment away. But still she drained 
her poison into his being. She heard him gasp, fall to his hands.
As the snake form incinerated, she smiled a venomous grin and fled away—but not 
down the thread that led to her body back at Castle Drakk. She knew she’d never 
make it there. That bridge was burned behind her. Instead, she fled to the only 
place her heart knew well.
A heart that beat in rhythm to her own.
Jaston fell to his knees in the tunnel. He knew the moment she passed beyond. 
“Cassa…”
The others rushed to his side, but he was blind to them, deaf to them. Her 
essence filled all his senses. The scent of moonblossom swelled around him. The 
taste of her lips appeared on his tongue, the brush of her hand on his cheek. 
“Cassa, what have you done?”
What had to be . . . She bathed him in all she was, holding him nearer than she 
ever could in life. But fear not. Hold me in your heart; remember our time. I’ll 
always be no more than a breath away.
“No,” he moaned.
Now go. You all must hurry. Images filled his head: a trap untangled, a wounded 
demon, weakened for only the moment. Fight for the world, my love. It is too 
beautiful to pass into darkness.
“Cassa, wait…”
Her breath was a kiss on his neck. / love you. I always will.
Then, like a brush of wind, she vanished. He held a fist against his chest, 
sobbing, wondering if his heart could continue to beat. But it did…
He lifted his head and faced the others. “She’s gone.”
Er’ril knelt over Jaston as the injured man explained what he had learned. “If 
Cassa Dar has indeed wounded Shorkan, then we must hurry.” he said. “Now may be 
our only chance. We cannot let her sacrifice be in vain.”
Harlequin spoke from near the back of the group. “I’d say we have no choice.” He 
faced the other way down the tunnel. From the direction of the pit, screams 
still echoed to them, but now the scrabble of claws on rocks sounded, too. If 
the skal’tum legions were headed down the tunnel, the only way was forward.
“Hurry!” Er’ril ordered.
Nee’lahn and Meric moved to Jaston’s side. “You go ahead. Let us slow the 
monsters.”
“Just the three of you?” Elena asked.
The two elementals shone in the silvery light, faces bright. Nee’lahn glanced to 
Meric, who wore a sly smile. “We’ll be enough. Now go. See to the Wyvern and its 
protector.”
Er’ril nodded and started down the hall. “Tol’chuk, take the lead with Magnam 
and Harlequin, but don’t leave the tunnel until we’re all together.”
Tol’chuk grunted his assent and headed out at a faster clip.
Er’ril turned to Elena. “The Blood Diary—maybe we should keep it closed until 
we’ve destroyed the Wyvern Gate.”

He read the understanding in her face. Cho had been growing wilder lately, 
especially when near her lost brother, Chi. If the Wyvern Gate lay ahead, then 
so did Chi. From Elena’s narrowed gaze, she clearly remembered what had happened 
when the group had confronted the Manticore Gate. Cho had possessed Elena, 
taking her over and almost killing her in the process.
Er’ril could not risk a repeat of that event. Until this last gate was broken 
and Chi was free, he did not trust the spirit of the book. It put its own needs 
and desires above all else, even Elena’s safety. And in the battle to come, he 
had enough to contend with.
Elena patted her cloak. “I’ll only open it once the last gate is broken.” As she 
spoke, her other hand closed over the rose hilt of her blood sword. She had 
enough magick at her command already.
Er’ril glanced behind them. The shape-shifters flanked Joach. Elena’s brother 
clutched his staff, its length already white with the touch of his bare fingers.
Er’ril frowned. Brother and sister… both bore blood weapons. He prayed they were 
strong enough to control such talismans.
Joach met his gaze unflinching, but the smallest blush of shame colored his 
cheeks. The two had shared few words since the second demise of Greshym, the 
trust between them wounded.
A hiss drew his attention back around. Tol’chuk waved them forward; the others 
had reached the tunnel exit. Magnam and Harlequin crouched by some rubble, 
haloed by the silver light.
Er’ril hurried to join them. Beyond the exit, an impossibly vast chamber opened. 
The floor was a wide basin of silver, while across the roof flowed a similar 
whorl, this one black as ink, a shadow of the one below.
“The Wyvern Gate,” Tol’chuk said, pointing a thick arm toward the center of the 
silver pool.
Though a distance away, the black shape of the ebon’stone bird could not be 
mistaken. At the statue’s feet, a figure cloaked in black lay facedown on the 
floor, stark against the silver.
“Shorkan.” Er’ril stood and started into the chamber. To reach the brilliant 
lake, he had to cross a shore of granite, piled with yellowed bones. “Elena, 
keep behind us. I don’t know if Shorkan is feigning his collapse or is truly 
wounded.”
He didn’t get any acknowledgment, so he glanced behind him. Elena stood frozen 
at the tunnel’s exit. Her gaze was not on the Wyvern Gate, nor on the collapsed 
darkmage, but on the bones underfoot.
“Elena,” he tried again.
Her only reaction was a widening of her eyes. “The bones… They’re goblin bones.”
Er’ril finally noticed the piled limbs and skulls. From the tiny size and pugged 
muzzles and fangs, Elena was clearly right. “Rock’goblins.”
“The ones I slew.”
He crossed back and took her arm, walking her through the graveyard of bones. 
“We must move forward,” he said, pulling her away from those painful memories.
Once past the boneyard, Elena shuddered, shaking off the shock. They stood at 
the edge of the bright lake.
“Elemental silver,” Joach said, “like the river beneath the Southwall of the 
Wastes. The energy here is tremendous.”
Er’ril stepped onto the silver cautiously. “The Dark Lord’s minions must have 
scoured through the granite, exposing the source. Here is where they mean to tap 
into the heart of the world and corrupt it.”
“Unless we can stop them,” Elena said with returning vigor.
Er’ril nodded. “Everyone stay alert. We don’t know how effective Cassa Dar’s 
poison was on the mage.”
Fardale and Thorn melted in their cloaks, becoming a blend of wolf and man. 
“We’ll run forward. If the monster is feigning his weakness, let us be the ones 
to discover it. We can move the quickest to escape any hidden trap.”
Er’ril waved them on. Before he could lower his arm, the pair of shape-shifters 
were already off. They raced across the silver lake, short swords in hand, but 
prepared to shift fully into beasts if necessary.
“Let’s go!” Er’ril said and followed at a fast clip. He made sure Elena stayed 
behind their phalanx of weapons.
Harlequin hung back with Er’ril, to stand on Elena’s other side, a pair of 
daggers in hand. The small man’s eyes, narrowed with worry, were on the roof.
Er’ril glanced up as they crossed the silver lake, passing under the dark 
reflection. Though he bore no magick himself, he sensed the enmity pulsing from 
that darkness.
“If the gate is already here,” Elena said, “why have they not already tainted 
the confluence? What are they waiting for?”
“The moon,” Harlequin answered, pointing toward the roof. “There’s a hole up 
there, right above the statue. You can see the light.”
Er’ril frowned. Now brought to his attention, he could indeed see a feeble glow 
in the center of the dark whorl. The storm above must be breaking, the cloud 
cover opening.
Elena spoke, her voice anxious. “They’re waiting for the full moon to shine down 
upon the Weirgate—but why?”
“There’s power in moonlight… power from the Void,” Harlequin said. “Remember our 
trip from the castle to the Western Reaches? They must need that power to fuel 
their corruption.”
Joach glanced back to them. “Fardale’s reached Shorkan.” He pointed his staff.
“Hang back a moment,” Er’ril warned. His party was halfway between the shore and 
the statue. Across the way, Fardale edged closer to the prone mage, while Thorn 
loped in a wary circle around Shorkan and the statue. The Wyvern Gate loomed 
over all, a dark sentinel of black wing, beak, and claw.
“Let’s see what they discover.”
MOGWEED TREMBLED IN HIS CELL, CURSING HIS BROTHER’S BRAVERY. He HAD
no desire to face the demon mage alone. Fardale edged closer to the sprawled 
figure, growling deep in his throat—half man, half wolf—ready to sprint away at 
a moment’s notice. A long black staff rested an arm’s length from the scarred 
hand of the monster; his scowled face was turned away.
Fardale stepped nearer, while Thorn circled around. The pair approached the mage 
from opposite sides.
Mogweed cringed in the darkness. He knew he could break into control of this 
body whenever he wanted. With Fardale distracted, it would be simple. But what 
would he do then? There was nowhere to run.
He fought against his rising panic. Thin’t, he screamed to himself. There must 
be a way to escape!
Then it was too late. On the silver floor, the black staff slid with a snap into 
the mage’s hand. With a surge, the darkmage flew to his feet with a howl of 
rage.
A trap!
Fardale scrambled back. “Run!” he yelled to Thorn, twisting around to do the 
same.
But before he could even turn, the darkmage thrust up his staff. Tendrils of 
darkness lashed from above, snaring both wolves. Fardale was jerked off his feet 
and reeled into the air. Mogweed sensed their certain doom.
Across the silver lake, the others stumbled back as cords sought them, too.
Shorkan held his staff toward the roof. His cowl had fallen back, revealing a 
swath of ropy scars and burned-out sockets. As his lips moved, he wobbled on his 
feet. His staff trembled. It seemed his collapse had not been entirely feigned.
As the darkmage fought for control, the snaking cords of darkness spasmed. 
Flowing like warmed oil, Fardale melted from cloak and pack, out of their grip. 
Thorn! he sent to his mate. Do as I do!
Mogweed held his breath as Fardale streamed to the floor and formed a wolf, like 
wax poured into a mold. The body they wore screamed in protest, sorely used. 
There were limits to their transforming abilities; their flesh could only ply so 
much before needing to rest.
Beyond Shorkan’s shoulder, Thorn clearly struggled. She had escaped the snare of 
darkness but had to fight her gelled body into a snowy wolf. She was clearly 
exhausted, too.
Shorkan turned to her, his staff lowering.
No! Fardale cried, leaping forward. He struck the mage and knocked him to a 
knee, then rolled up, ready to defend his mate.
The fur on Fardale’s shoulder sizzled from contact with the malignant demon. The 
burn seared into Mogweed. He cried out in his silent prison. Fardale crouched 
before the darkmage, hackles raised, teeth bared. Thorn! Run to the others!
The attack had given his mate time to finish her shift. She stood, a snowy wolf 
on a frozen silver lake. Then in a flash of fur, she was gone, flying away. 
Hurry, Fardale! she cast back at him.
Mogweed willed the same, but his brother refused to risk his mate again. He 
stood his ground, allowing her time to escape. The mage regained his feet, staff 
swinging.
Fardale! Run! Mogweed screamed internally. He reached for control of the body. 
If his brother wouldn’t flee, he would!
As he sprang from his cell, a searing blast of darkfire shot over his shoulder 
from behind. Fardale ducked as the spray of black flames struck the mage square 
in the chest and threw him against the ebon’stone statue. Shorkan spun his staff 
and broke the lance of darkfire.
Joach stood a hundred steps away, his staff pointed at the mage. Shorkan gained 
his feet, but with his attention focused on the boy, the snaking tendrils were 
in disarray. From the roof, the cloaks and packs of the shape-shifters tumbled 
to the floor, no longer held.
The rest of their party flanked Joach. Only Elena held back, protected. Thorn 
reached the others, spinning on her haunches to rejoin the attack.
“You’ll never win, Shorkan!” Er’ril called to him. “We’ve more than enough 
magick to withstand you!”
Shorkan laughed. “That will be seen, Brother! But either way, you are too late. 
The moon is risen. Your time here is at an end.”
He stamped his staff on the silver floor. All around the edges of the lake, 
bones jittered and clattered. “It is time to pay in blood for your own 
misdeeds!” Shorkan called out, lifting his staff high. “To face your own 
transgressions!”
From the piles, impossible constructions of bone formed. They clambered up as if 
they had merely been asleep, sprawled and sunning themselves on the shore. Now 
they arose and scuttled onto the lake, some small and quick, like crabs. Others 
towered twice the size of an og’re, all thick-boned, bearing clubs topped by 
skulls. Still others ran on all fours like dogs, but with maws full of tiny 
shattered bones.
The legion converged on the group, encircling the smaller party. Er’ril shouted 
orders as the monsters closed in.
Shorkan laughed again. He spun his staff toward the roof, readying to attack 
from above, too. The party would be assaulted from all sides.
Fardale gathered himself. Clearly the wolf had been forgotten during the 
exchange or was perhaps considered to be no threat. Either way, Fardale meant to 
prove otherwise. Mogweed couldn’t allow that. It was sure death.
As Fardale leaped, so did Mogweed—out from his cell and into the body. His 
brother was caught by surprise and tumbled back into the empty cell. Mogweed 
counted on Fardale to believe it was the natural transition from day to night; 
the sun had to be near to setting anyway. It would take him a few moments to 
realize the lack of walls to his cell. By that time, Mogweed intended to be 
away.
But the transition was neither smooth nor unnoticed. Fardale had already begun 
his lunge. His legs, interrupted in midleap, went out from under him before 
Mogweed gained control. His frantic motions drew an eye.
Shorkan turned to him. Mogweed backpedaled away but tripped on his own abandoned 
cloak and pack. A sneer stretched the pale lips of the mage.
“It’s time a dog was beaten soundly by its master.”
The world was all bones. Elena crouched as the monstrous con-structions lumbered 
and skittered around them. Tol’chuk struck his hammer at a beast, shattering 
through its shoulder, but the broken bones re-formed, flying back into position.
Joach sprayed out jets of balefire, turning all in his path to ash. But from the 
ash, bone re-formed and shook back into monster and beast.
Their own party, however, did not fare as well. Magnam bled from a shoulder 
wound, pierced through by a sharpened shard. Harlequin Quail limped on his left 
leg. Thorn raced through the towering beasts, yanking out bones, snagging and 
toppling creatures. One of her ears was torn and bleeding.
Er’ril fell back to her side. “Force alone will not win our way through here. 
We’ll need your magick.”
They had been holding her in reserve. Now she straightened, palms bloody with 
coldfire and wit’ch fire. She had seen the result of Joach’s balefire, so she 
kept her right fist closed and opened her left. With a skill born from winters 
of bloodshed, she cast out twines of coldfire, careful of her companions.
“Everyone down!” Er’ril yelled to the others. They obeyed, dropping to hands and 
knees, even bellies. Elena sent out a wash of coldfire over them, all around 
her, freezing the bones of the creatures to the marrow. The damp air iced around 
them, frosting all. The lumbering monsters slowed and stopped their attack. 
“Well done, Elena.” Er’ril said.
Harlequin Quail lifted his head, staring around him. “Yes, very good. We’ve 
built our own prison of ice and bone.”
Elena saw that they were indeed encased in a pen of bone. “We can shatter a path 
to the gate,” Er’ril said and motioned Tol’chuk up with his hammer.
Elena kept her flow of magick trickling to the bone army; she did not want them 
awakening. But linked to the monstrosities, she sensed a presence, thoughts that 
fed back through her connection into her heart. Frowning, she focused her 
attention inward.
Words formed in her head, whispers in an ancient tongue, but understood by her 
heart: Lightbringer, stealer of spirits. She knew who spoke. “Mother above… not 
again…”
The whispers continued to feed into her. A handful of voices grew to 
hundreds—the spirits of the rock’goblins, those slain at her hand. Drawn to her 
magick, they had burned to death in her light. Their spirits were still here! 
They had never passed beyond.
All along, she had thought her crime upon these simple folk to be over and done, 
a tragedy of the past. She gaped at this army. It had never ended! They were 
trapped and tormented, and now foully used by the darkmage, their spirits 
twisted back to their own bones.
Shorkan’s earlier words echoed in her heart. It is time to pay in blood for your 
own misdeeds…face your own trangressions.
The crash of a hammer sounded on her left. Inside her, it was answered by a howl 
of pain. Not one voice, but many. Even the squeals of young ones, bleating cries 
for help.
“They feel it,” she moaned, falling to her knees.
Er’ril heard her, saw her fall.
Another hammer blow set up more cries. They filled the hollow ache in her own 
heart.
Er’ril clutched her. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re killing them all over again.”
She stared up into his face. “Stop Tol’chuk. It has to stop!”
“Why?”
“Do it!” she cried fiercely, tears springing to her eyes. “If you love me, stop 
him now!”
Er’ril stared for a breath longer, his face worried, but he leaped away.
Elena cut off her magick, hugging her arms around her, rocking. “No more…” she 
muttered.
Around them, the bone prison remained, but frozen limbs began to creak and pop, 
fighting through her fading magick.
“What do you want us to do?” Er’ril asked as the bone army began to reawaken.
Elena shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Shorkan stepped nearer to Mogweed. “You shall be the first among your companions 
to suffer.”
Mogweed tried to scramble away, but his feet remained tangled in his cloak, his 
pack under one knee. He struggled to pull his tired flesh from wolf back to man, 
but it resisted. He fought harder. His only hope lay in freeing his tongue. He 
had to tell the demon that they served the same master, but his tired flesh was 
sluggish to obey.
The staff lowered toward him.
He sensed Fardale urging him. Fight! his brother seemed to yell.
But Mogweed was no warrior. His mind spun, settling instead on another way of 
convincing the mage. With his limbs half shifted, he grabbed his pack and ripped 
it open. His crude hand pawed into its contents, digging deep to the small 
ebon’stone egg given to him by the Dark Lord. It was meant for Greshym, now 
twice dead. Surely the egg contained some dark magick, a tool to have helped the 
mage escape their captivity. Mog-weed lifted his prize, struggling to speak.
Shorkan’s scarred features widened with shock.
Mogweed fought his dull flesh. He gurgled out words. “For you!” He rolled the 
egg toward the mage. Surely this would prove his loyalty.
The response was not what he expected. Shorkan howled, backing away, the length 
of his black staff ignited into black flames. “No!” But the prior attacks had 
weakened the demon. Now it was his turn to stumble.
The egg reached the mage’s toes. As it bumped against Shorkan, the egg hatched 
with a boom, exploding as if thunder itself had been trapped inside the stone 
shell. The silver lake shattered like thin ice under the darkmage’s feet. Cracks 
skittered from his heels. The ground shook.
Mogweed cowered back as realization dawned: The egg had not been meant as a 
boon, but as a doom.
Trails of smoke shot up from the egg, wrapping over the demon. Where they 
touched, flesh and clothes turned to dark crystal. The mage continued a 
stumbling retreat, but his legs were already hardened. He fell with a crash, and 
still the smoke pursued him.
The fire in his ebon’stone staff died as his scarred fingers turned to dark 
crystal. A scream rose from the demon, ending in a tinkling cry. Then after 
another breath, even this ended.
Mogweed pushed to his feet—still half man, half wolf. Sprawled before him on the 
silver lake was a statue made of dark crystal. Though he couldn’t read Fardale’s 
thoughts, he sensed the confusion, the shock, and also the silent question. What 
have you done, Brother?
Mogweed shook his head. He had no answer. He stared up at the looming Weirgate 
and slowly backed away. Inside he sensed his brother’s quiet suspicions. Were 
you betraying us or saving us?
Er’ril lifted his sword as the bone army creaked from its frozen prison, 
lumbering toward them again. The others backed to his side. Despite Elena’s 
protests, he meant to fight. He would not let her fall.
A huge bone beast clambered from among its icy brethren. It towered twice 
Er’riFs height and bore a sickle of broken bone in each clawed hand. It stalked 
forward.
Elena reached for Er’ril’s cloak. “They’re not demonic, just victims of the 
darkmage.”
He ignored her. He knew that Shorkan must have set this trap, know-

ing it would undermine Elena when she most needed to be strong. But he would not 
let Shorkan win. Er’ril had borne guilt that stretched centuries. For Elena, he 
would bear even more. Er’ril stepped forward to meet the giant.
“No…” Elena moaned.
As if it heard her, the bone monster froze. A tremble passed through its frame. 
Then like a house of tumbling cards, it fell apart, clattering down. Bones 
bounced across the silver floor. The two sickles shattered as they struck.
All around, the army fell apart, collapsing into bony ruins. Er’ril stood amid 
the chaos. “What happened?” Tol’chuk asked.
Elena rose to her feet. “The spell that bound them. It… it’s gone!” Er’ril 
looked beyond the boneyard. What new trick was this? He searched out his 
brother. Under the gaze of the Wyvern Gate, he saw Fardale collapsed to his 
knees. Before him lay the darkmage, unmoving on the silver lake.
“Something’s happened,” Magnam said.
Narrowing his eyes, Er’ril waved them forward. They pushed and kicked through 
the piled bones; then Er’ril led the way across the lake, sword in hand. Elena 
followed, her eyes still haunted.
As they neared the Weirgate, the fate of his brother became clear. The 
darkmage’s body had turned to pure crystal, black as sin and hard as ice. Er’ril 
felt his own body growing numb, but he forced his limbs forward. He stared down 
at the face of an enemy, the face of a brother he had once loved. He read the 
lines of torture in the ravaged countenance. Er’ril suspected the agony wasn’t 
all the pain of this crystallization. In those lines, he read the anguish of his 
brother’s true heart. “Shorkan,” he whispered.
“He’s gone to crystal,” Elena said. “Like De’nal.”
“Can he thaw?” Magnam asked ominously, fingering his hammer. “Like the bone 
monsters?”
“Never,” Er’ril said harshly, shuddering at this thought. Never again. He 
glanced to the d’warf. “Give me your weapon.” Magnam hesitated, then did as he 
asked.
Er’ril hefted the hammer to his shoulder and frowned down at the crystal form of 
his brother. He remembered all the horrors done in his brother’s name. “If 
you’re like De’nal,” he said coldly, “a spirit composed of crystal, then you can 
hear me. I can’t deny that part of you was once my brother. But a part does not 
make a whole. Where De’nal was brightness and light, you are darkness and 
corruption. And long ago, I promised to see your corruption gone from this 
world.”
Before his sorrow weakened him further, he swung the sledge down with both arms. 
The crystal shattered into a million pieces, bouncing and skittering in all 
directions. “And I keep my promises.”
Afterward, Er’ril dropped the hammer and turned away. Tears rose to his eyes. He 
wiped them away roughly. Why should he shed a tear for the demon here?
Elena answered him, as if reading his heart. “Though he was evil, he was still 
the last of your brother in this world. You are right to mourn.”
Er’ril shook his head, clearing his throat. He allowed his Standish iron to 
harden him. “I’ll mourn my brother once this is over.” He swung around to the 
shape-shifter. “Tell me how this happened.”
MOGWEED STARED UP AT THE PLAINSMAN. How HE WANTED TO RUN, TO FLEE
his disgrace, but he could not. Those storm-gray eyes bore down on him, pinning 
him in place. But he was too shocked to answer, to construct a clever lie.
Tell them, Fardale seemed to howl inside him.
Tol’chuk stepped to his other side, clapping him on the shoulder. “Far-dale, how 
did you save us?”
Mogweed startled with this question, his eyes wide. Fardale? He bit back a 
laugh. Of course—they all still thought him his brother. This realization shook 
him out of his shock.
“I… Fardale… I didn’t do anything.” Lies again flowed freely from his warming 
tongue. “It must have been the silver lake. It cracked under the mage, and he… 
he transformed.” Mogweed kept his eyes averted from Thorn. She would know the 
lie.
Inside, he felt his brother’s outrage. Mogweed didn’t know how long his 
subterfuge would last—hopefully long enough for him to escape before they all 
learned the truth of his betrayal.
Harlequin Quail pointed toward the roof. “Whether luck or fate, time runs short. 
The moon rises already to reach the hole.”
Mogweed craned his neck. Through a small hole in the rocky ceiling, a pale 
violet sky shone. A corner of the moon peeked past one edge.
“Perhaps whatever magick Shorkan planned here ended with him,” Magnam said, 
wrapping his injured shoulder.
Elena slid her sword from her sheath. “I won’t trust that until the Weirgate is 
gone.”
Mogweed kept his eyes on the hole above. From the color of the skies, the sun 
was near to setting. Once it was gone, Fardale would be trapped until the 
morning. He’d have time to think of a strategy, perhaps escape. He bent to reach 
for his cloak when he felt his hand spasm, twitching on its own.
No! Not on its own! His arm rose and clenched a fist he hadn’t formed of his own 
will. Fardale knew! Like himself, he had discovered the new freedom.
Mogweed ground his teeth. I won’t give up, Brother! Still bent, hiding his 
struggle from the others, he fought his fingers open. Sunset is so near… I only 
have to hold out a little longer.
Mogweed tried to straighten, but his body locked. He couldn’t move. With both 
wills fighting for control, neither could win. / won’t give up control!
“Fardale, what’s wrong?” Elena asked behind him.
She must have noted his trembling form, but he dared not give up the struggle, 
even to speak. The sun would set at any moment. He could almost feel its 
descent.
“Fardale?”
He heard her step closer, but even a moment’s lapse in his will and—
Mogweed’s body suddenly jerked free. The abrupt release sent him wheeling up and 
backward with a shout on his lips, a cry of joy. Free!
Then he felt a lance of fire jab through him. Only then did he hear the shouted 
warning. “Fardale, «o!”
He stared down. A sword blade protruded from his chest, impossibly bright. His 
blood welled thickly. He fell to his knees.
“He jumped back,” Elena said, aghast. “I couldn’t get the blade out of the way!”
Mogweed tried to cough out the heaviness in his chest. Invisible steel bands 
seemed to have wrapped his ribs, squeezing painfully.
Thorn suddenly appeared in front of him. “ Fardale, no…”
Mogweed managed a shake of his head. He met the eyes of his brother’s mate. It 
is not Fardale. The sun has set. He now knew why he was so suddenly released, 
caught off guard, off balance.
“Oh, Mogweed…” Thorn said, glancing to the others. “It’s Mogweed again.” She 
turned back to him, taking his hand. Tears welled in her eyes—she knew both 
brothers would die from the one sword stroke.
He felt himself slipping already.
Thorn must have noted this, too. Her words became hurried. “Tell him, tell him…” 
Her amber eyes glowed.
He could have turned away, but he didn’t. Fardale was still inside him. What did 
it matter any longer? Let him hear the last words of love from his mate. He kept 
his eyes locked on Thorn’s, taking it all in as his breath grew ragged. Someone 
grabbed his shoulders and helped him sit.
Through their gazes, Mogweed took in all the love between the two. Flashes of 
images, scents, memories, small whispers of forgiveness. It was a light almost 
too bright to look upon. But even such brilliance began to fade as his vision 
darkened and his body grew colder.
The line between the brothers grew less distinct again. But this time, there was 
no fight. Mogweed faced Fardale, twins, naked to one another.
I’m sorry, Brother. It was hard to say who even spoke those words.
Then darkness descended over them both… and they were gone.
Sobbing, Elena knelt atop the silver lake, her face covered by her hands. “How? 
After all they’ve been through…”
Er’ril helped lower Mogweed’s body to the ground. The sword was still impaled 
through the middle of his chest. Blood ran in a wide pool around his body. 
Er’ril turned to Elena, taking her in his arms.
“Why?” she moaned.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t believe the fault here was solely due to 
chance. The blade is a blood sword. Such weapons are known to harm too easily 
and too often. Their tainted steel always seeks blood and death.”
His words did little to console her. It was her hand that had wielded the blade. 
She had turned her attention away for the barest moment… Then Mogweed had flown 
backward as if intent upon skewering himself.
Thorn knelt on the other side of the prone body, weeping.
Harlequin spoke from a few steps away. “The moon is almost full risen. If we are 
to act against the gate, we’d best hurry.”
Er’ril helped her stand. “I’ll get your sword.”
Elena shook free, wiping her eyes. “No, I’ll do it.” She swallowed hard and 
stepped toward the body. The rose-pommel hilt ran red with the shape-shifters’ 
blood. Thorn turned away, unable to watch. Elena closed her hand over the hilt, 
and the sword sang free with ease, as easily as it had slain her friends. As the 
tip pulled clear, the body seemed to melt under it, as if the blade were all 
that had held the body together. The form dissolved into a rusty-colored flow. 
It spread across the silver floor, parting around Thorn’s knees. She backed in 
horror. The two flows drew in on themselves, welling up into bulky mounds that 
sculpted into two figures curled on the floor. The shapes grew more distinct and 
familiar: one a dark wolf, one a man.
“Mogweed and Fardale,” Er’ril said. “They’re finally free.”
Tol’chuk shook his head sadly.
Thorn dropped down beside her mate, reaching a hand to his face. With her touch, 
the wolf suddenly inhaled deeply, then startled up, as if disturbed from sleep. 
Everyone jumped back, even Thorn.
The shape-shifter spoke tentatively to the wolf as it gained its feet, wobbling 
slightly. “F-Fardale?”
The wolf lifted its head. Amber eyes glowed toward the si’luran woman. Then 
Thorn’s eyes widened, too. She let out a sob of joy and wrapped her arms around 
the wolf’s neck.
“I guess that’d be a yes,” Harlequin commented.
To the side, Mogweed pushed up, rubbing his eyes. “Wh-what happened?” he asked.
“You be alive!” Tol’chuk said, scooping him to his feet.
Mogweed stared down at his limbs, clearly as surprised as any of them. He 
fingered his naked chest. “I’m healed. How?”
Er’ril pointed to the sword in Elena’s stunned fingers. “Shadowsedge was made to 
break spells. I’d wager its piercing shattered whatever held you together.”
“The Spirit Root said we were to take the sword and seek you out,” Thorn 
recalled.
Mogweed stared over at his brother. “So it was the sword all along? We could’ve 
been freed anytime.”
Elena stared around at the confluence. She remembered the trapped rock’goblin 
spirits. “I suspect such a miracle could only occur here. You had to die, but 
your spirits couldn’t pass beyond. The confluence held you safe until you were 
unbound.”
Mogweed stared over to his brother. “Either way, we’re wolf and man again.” He 
lifted his arm, and a flare of fur sprouted along its length. “But truly bound 
no longer.”
Fardale shifted from wolf to something half man so he could clutch Thorn in his 
arms. Then he faced his brother. “Mogweed…”
Mogweed sighed heavily, then bowed his head and mumbled, “I know…”
Fardale crossed to him and hugged him. “You’ve freed us.”
Elena noted the shocked look on the other’s face.
Fardale straightened, still resting a hand on Mogweed’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Brother.”
The shock on Mogweed’s face persisted. Elena smiled. She suspected the small man 
had received little praise in his life, always living in the shadow of his 
brother.
“The moon,” Harlequin reminded them.
Elena turned to face the Wyvern Gate. The black bird sat hunched on its 
ebon’stone claws, ruby eyes staring from its cowl of feathers, its wings 
outspread as if ready to leap. It was their last obstacle.
Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder. “If the sword could break the twins, let’s 
hope it can break the gate.”
Elena nodded. If they succeeded, Chi would be free, and the Dark Lord would be 
stripped of his well of dark magick. She allowed herself a moment of hope—a 
strange sensation after the winters of despair.
“Let’s do it,” she said. Even if she lost the blade, she wouldn’t shed any 
tears. She remembered the ease with which the blade had slipped into Mogweed’s 
back. After this night, she was done with the blood sword.
Together, they approached the statue cautiously, but it remained stone. Elena 
slid one hand, then the other, down the length of the sword’s razored edge. 
Blood flowed freely.
She glanced back to the others; then, setting her lips, she turned. Above the 
statue, almost all of the moon’s fullness filled the hole. They had not a moment 
more to spare. Stepping closer, she gripped the hilt with both bloodied hands. 
Immediately she felt the connection to the steel, the surge of confidence, the 
keen understanding of magick. “When you’re ready,” Er’ril said.
She smiled and drove the blade into the sculpted chest of the bird. Her arms 
were ready for the blade to clang on stone or shatter against it, but the blade 
sank into the ebon’stone as if it were mere smoke. But the effect was immediate. 
The stone bird awoke with a scream, its neck arching up as its wings snapped 
wide. “Elena,” Er’ril warned. She drove the sword all the way to its hilt.
Connected to the sword, she felt the Weir beyond the gate, that immensity of 
madness. But she held tight. Through her bond, she felt the sword’s elemental 
substance bleed into the Weir, its magick sucked into the bottomless well.
Shadowsedge was gone, but Elena continued to hold its hilt pressed to the breast 
of the stone bird. This sword was not only steel; it was also her own blood, a 
flow rich in magick—but not elemental magick. The Weir did not want her energy. 
Her magick came from Cho, the Weir from Chi. The two twin but contrary magicks 
fought each other explosively.
Elena held tight. The elemental steel had pierced the stone, allowing her blood 
access to the Weir beyond. She felt the build-up of opposite forces within the 
heart of the bird. It was this fiery fight that tortured the stone wyvern. The 
bird continued to scream. It beat its wings, but it could not take to the air. 
It had to await the moon and remain connected to the confluence of silver. Still 
it tried to shake her free, lifting her off her feet.
“Elena!” Er’ril screamed. From the corner of her eye, she saw him knocked aside 
by a blow from a stone wing, sliding across the silver floor.
Still, she held tight with both fists to the hilt, hanging from the rose pommel. 
She would not fail. She fed more and more of her own blood through the hilt and 
into the Weir. The bird writhed with agony. She glanced up to its ruby eyes, on 
fire now. Its beaked maw dove at her, ready to rip her away.
But Tol’chuk was there. Heaving with both shoulders, he swung his huge hammer 
across the side of the bird’s head with a clang. The impossibly hard ebon’stone 
remained intact, but the wyvern’s beak was knocked aside.
“Hurry, Elena,” Harlequin called out. “The moon comes!”
With the others protecting her, Elena held fast and pumped volumes of magick and 
blood into the monster. Within the heart of the bird, a fierce tension of forces 
built to impossible dimensions. She kept her focus, willing her fingers to hold. 
But from the loss of blood, she had begun to weaken. Her hands were also paling 
from ruby red to a pale pink. She could not last much longer.
The wyvern fought harder yet. Now it was Tol’chuk’s turn to be batted aside like 
a fly by a horsetail. Unprotected now, she knew she had only one option.
With a final thrust, she emptied the last of her magick into the heart of the 
stone, giving everything in her. The bird wailed, neck stretched toward the 
roof. Above, Elena spotted the full face of the moon staring back at her. Was 
she too late? Silvery light bathed down upon them.
Her fingers began to fail. She pushed a final flow of blood into the monster 
before falling free. But as her last finger slipped away, she felt the tidal 
force inside the bird cross some threshold. She understood the two opposite 
energies—from Cho and Chi—could no longer be contained within the one vessel.
“Back!” she yelled hoarsely, spent.
The blast shattered out, tossing Elena away. The others were buffeted as well, 
scattered in all directions. She felt the sting of stone striking her body like 
icy sleet in a windstorm.
She was flung back to the boneyard, rolling among the old remains. Then the 
blast subsided.
She rolled to her hands and knees, numb and bleeding. Her hands were pale and 
white, her magick gone. She would have to renew in the spear of moonlight across 
the room.
But before she could even stand, Meric and Nee’lahn tumbled into the room from 
the tunnel. Meric had his hands raised. Winds screamed out from him, whirling 
the small bones around their feet. Then from the tunnel, clinging to stone with 
claws, skal’tum climbed out, crawling up the walls like so many roaches.
Nee’lahn turned for the first time into the chamber. Her eyes widened with 
horror.
Elena followed her gaze, swinging around. Her companions were climbing to their 
feet, bloody from the flying shards. The shatter of stone spread in a circular 
blast out from the center of the confluence. All that remained of the wyvern was 
a cloud of ebon’stone dust, aglow in the moonlight. Even the silver floor was 
gouged by the blast.
The final Weirgate was broken!
Then around her, the goblin bones began to stir, shaking and rattling, then 
beginning to slide and build on one another. Elena hurriedly gained her feet and 
stumbled out of the boneyard, while Meric and Nee’lahn ran through the shivering 
bones to join her.
“There were too many.” Nee’lahn gasped. “Jaston…” She shook her head with a sob. 
“He gave his life to buy us time to escape.”
Elena’s heart ached for the poor man, but her attention remained on the 
situation at hand. The bone army was awakening again. The skal’tum were still 
attacking. Why? The Weirgate was gone…
Er’ril ran to her side, bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead. “We must get 
away. There are tunnels on the far side. At least there we’d be better 
sheltered.”
Behind them, the skal’tum began to scream. The plume of dust ahead obscured the 
view, but she remembered the tunnel openings on the far side. “I must renew,” 
she said, pointing to the pool of moonlight in the room’s center.
But as she stepped forward, something shifted within the fading cloud of rock 
dust. Skal’tum screeched, and bones clattered behind her, but she froze, her 
eyes fixed forward. Er’ril noted her attention and swung back to the blasted 
section of floor.
Bathed in moonlight, something stirred within the dust, a figure rising from the 
debris. Arms lifted, stretching, and legs unbent. From the heart of the 
Weirgate, a creature was born.
The others gathered to them. The skal’tum held back. In the center of the room 
stood a huge black figure. Bathed in bright moonlight, the form was clearly made 
of ebon’stone.
But its eyes were fiery pits.
Elena recognized what type of creature this was. She had been chased through the 
swamplands by a blackguard, a spirit armored in melted ebon’stone. But this one 
wore familiar features—a dark mirror of Tol’chuk.
No one spoke. All knew who stood before them: Ly’chuk, the Oath-breaker, the 
Black Beast of Gul’gotha.
His words shook the room. “I am born anew.”
Tyrus rallied his men, fighting to be heard over the roar of the dragon, the 
screams of the dying, and the crackle of the flames from the fire pit.
A bellow drew the prince’s attention back to the arch of the dark volcanic room. 
The dragon swooped higher after its last attack, one of their hill horses in its 
maw. With a toss of its neck, Ragnar’k flung the bleeding corpse into a phalanx 
of d’warf archers. They had been trying to wound the dragon with their arrows, 
but the bolts passed harmlessly through its shape. How did one kill a dragon 
made of smoke?
He had already tried his petrifying magick to no avail. All he earned was a gash 
across his back as he rolled from a claw. It made no sense. Though the dragon 
was mere smoke, its talons and fangs bore enough substance to rip and tear.
Tyrus rounded his own mount among his men. Fletch rode double with Hurl; the 
Steppeman had come close to joining his mount in the dragon’s teeth. Only a 
last-minute roll from the saddle had saved him.
“What now?” Blyth asked.
“There it goes again,” Sticks mumbled from Tyrus’ other side. He pointed one of 
his clubs.
Overhead, the smoke dragon wafted high into the dark chamber, disappearing into 
the gloom overhead. It was its usual ruse—using the shadows to hide itself, then 
springing out of darkness to maim and kill.
“Watch for its eyes!” Wennar bellowed from a short distance away.
That was the only warning of an attack. Against the darkness, the dragon’s eyes 
glowed with crimson fire. It was the last sight many of the d’warves saw before 
meeting a bloody death. So far the men on horses fared better, able to escape 
Ragnar’k if they were quick enough.
“Our only recourse is retreat,” Blyth continued. “We can’t win here.”
Tyrus remained silent. Winning wasn’t the game; they needed to harry the Dark 
Lord and his forces. Their blood was spent to buy time. “Lead Sticks and the 
others back to the Black Road.”
“And the d’warves?”
Wennar shouted. “Keep your backs to the fire! Use its light!”
“I think he intends to stay.”
“And you?” Hurl asked from behind Fletch.
Tyrus rested his sword across his knees.
“It’s suicide to stay, Captain,” Blyth pressed.
He sighed. “We all die sometime.”
His first mate frowned at him. “Spoken like a true pirate, sir. But even a 
pirate knows when the odds be against him, and when to tack to calmer waters.”
Tyrus glanced to his friend. He opened his mouth to object when Blyth’s eyes 
widened. Reflected in his mate’s panicked eyes, crimson fire glowed at him.
Tyrus leaped from his saddle at the same time as Blyth. “Down!” he screamed. He 
hit the stone floor and dodged underneath his own horse. Beyond its hooves, he 
spotted Sticks’ legs. Then suddenly the giant’s boots vanished upward, leaving 
behind a bellow of outrage.
Rolling from under the horse, Tyrus crouched with his sword. He spotted Sticks 
struggling in the air, his shoulder clutched in one of the dragon’s claws. 
Ragnar’k roared with glee, winging high into the air. The dragon circled with 
its prey.
Sticks had one of his clubs and batted at his captor, but the length of ironwood 
merely passed through smoke. The dragon could not be harmed.
Across the floor, archers knelt ready with arrows notched, but none dared shoot 
with the man in danger.
Ragnar’k carried his struggling prize over the fire pit, still bellowing. Then 
the claws released the giant. He was dropped toward the flames, arms wheeling, a 
scream on his lips.
Tyrus could only stare in horror. Then the twang of a bowstring sounded from 
near his ear. He glanced quickly and spotted Fletch fitting another arrow. He 
turned back. As usual with Fletch, a second arrow wasn’t necessary. The first 
had shot Sticks through the eye, killing him instantly. The giant was limp when 
his form struck the searing flames.
Tyrus clenched a fist, his fingers going black. “Mount up,” he ordered his men. 
“I want you all away. Now!”
Blyth climbed into his saddle, but he simply sat his horse. “We’re pirates, 
Captain. Since when were we any good at obeying orders?”
Hurl reached out and pulled Fletch into the saddle. “Truly, sir. We’d be craven 
pirates if we obeyed all our captain’s orders.”
Tyrus looked them over. “As you said, it’s sure death to stay.”
Blyth shrugged. “Life’s only too short if you haven’t lived.”
Shaking his head, Tyrus grabbed the pommel of his own saddle and hauled himself 
up. “And we have lived,” he mumbled.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Then let’s hunt us some dragon!”
Sy-wen clung to Kast, not just with her fingers but with all her being. She kept 
her focus on the man she loved as they flew down the glassy corridor. If her 
concentration wavered, sensations and lusts from Ragnar’k grew stronger.
She had experienced the dragon’s first few kills. The taste of blood had filled 
her mouth, savage delight had raced through her veins, and the screams of the 
dying had echoed through her. These thoughts and sensations still threatened to 
unhinge her, but Kast’s presence was an anchor amid the tumult.
Hang on, he urged her now. We have only a short way to go. She closed her eyes, 
sinking into the simpler, cleaner senses of the dragon she rode. The whisper of 
wind, the pull of wing, the gentle ache of muscles, the steady thud of a giant 
heart. She sheltered there.
But like thunder over a horizon, cries and screams still reached her from the 
other dragon. She wanted to wrap her arms around her head, to clamp the horrors 
away, but she needed her grip to keep her seat atop Kast as he flashed under 
spans, around columns, and over gardens of statuary.
As she crouched in her seat, the screams grew louder. Only after a few moments 
did she realize it wasn’t the phantom sense from Ragnar’k, but something she was 
hearing with her own ears.
We’re nearing the central chamber, Kast said.
Sy-wen took a deep breath. You know what to do? she asked.
I’ll be ready. But what about you?
She heard the concern and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her part was no easier 
than Kast’s. She straightened in her seat and opened herself to Ragnar’k. 
Bonded, she sent to him, I’ve come to join you.
The connection between dragon and rider flared with her focus. My bonded! 
Ragnar’k answered her. The raw sensations of the other dragon swamped over her.
Her fingers clenched. She bit back a gasp of horror. If she hadn’t once been 
possessed by the simaltra, the purely vile thoughts might have overwhelmed her. 
But she had met such darkness before. She would not let it rule her again.
Come join in the flow of blood!
Sy-wen spotted the end of the tunnel; they were almost to the chamber. She 
wormed through the madness and spoke to Ragnar’k. / am already with you.
His glee filled her head, as she knew it would. Despite his corruption, Ragnar’k 
was still tied to her by bonds more ancient than any magick. He could not refuse 
to join with her.
Kast flew them into the huge room. A forest of torches spiked the floor, 
spreading across the vast cavern. From their height, she could spot a pattern to 
the torches’ positions, a swirl that centered on a giant fire pit in what must 
be the room’s center.
“There,” she whispered to Kast. “Aim for the central fire. That’s where I last 
saw Tyrus.”
And the prince still lives?
“Yes. Ragnar’k seems fixed on him. He must smell the magick on the man.”
Then we must hurry. Kast swept high over the field of torches. Where is 
Ragnar’k?
Sy-wen frowned, unsure. She knew he was in here, but his presence seemed to fill 
the cavern. It was hard to say where he was precisely, and in the gloom, the 
smoke of his body was impossible to discern.
As she searched, she spotted the remains of the d’warf army near the pit. Men on 
horseback wheeled among the d’warves—Tyrus and the others.
She did not need to point them out to Kast; he had keener eyes than hers. “Watch 
for Ragnar’k.”
Then it was as if a cloud passed under them, obscuring their view of the 
d’warves. Shouts and bellows erupted, and d’warves scattered from under the 
cloud.
Ragnar’t, Kast said.
“Go to him,” Sy-wen whispered. A shiver trembled through her. They risked all in 
this next venture.
The connection with Ragnar’k flared. A gift, he sent, bloody meat
on bone!
He was attacking again, showing off his prowess. In that small way, he was the 
Ragnar’k she knew—prideful, boastful. But it had to stop—she didn’t know if she 
could survive the bloodshed when so near Ragnar’k.
Kast sensed her urgency. He tucked his wings and aimed for the misty cloud. 
Sy-wen leaned close to her love. His body was a steaming hearth after the long 
flight here.
They dove together, dropping like a boulder from the distant roof. The smoky 
cloud grew before them. She sensed a startled reaction from Ragnar’k. So focused 
on his kill, he had failed to realize they were so near.
Then they were shooting through the cloud. Sy-wen felt a scintillation over her 
skin. Bonded! she sent. Join us! They shot out from the smoky pall and into 
clear air.
D’warves fled from Kast’s passage. A handful of arrows even spat at him. But 
Sy-wen heard a familiar bellow.
“Archers down!” It was Wennar.
They flew past the d’warves and near the fire pit. Flames danced high above the 
edge. The heat drove them to bank aside. Kast tilted on a wing, arcing around.
Sy-wen spotted the misty cloud flowing in their wake. There was nothing a dragon 
liked better than a chase—and ill’guard or not, Ragnar’k was still a dragon. She 
felt glee surging in his heart.
But there was one thing a dragon liked better than a hunt.
Bonded! Ragnar’k moaned.
She read his desire. Once bonded, a dragon was never whole without its rider on 
its back. Prove your blood, my bonded, she sent back to him. Catch us…join with 
us. Let me ride you again!
Ragnar’k, unfettered by his dark forging, was a creature enslaved to his lusts. 
He could not refuse a chase, nor resist joining so he could be ridden by his 
bonded.
Here he comes, Kast said.
“Be ready,” she answered. “Keep close to the floor.” She risked a glance behind 
her. A smoky reflection of a dragon followed them, like a monstrous living 
shadow with eyes of flame. Her blood iced at the sight.
I’m coming for you, Ragnar’k promised.
She tore her gaze around, leaning closer to Kast. “Now,” she whispered to his 
scales. “Let it be now.”
Kast silently acknowledged her, slowing and drifting down. He glided over the 
tops of the torches, blowing out their flames with the winds of his passage, 
leaving behind a trail of darkness.
Then the darkness caught up with them, sweeping around and into them. The 
three—Kast, Sy-wen, and Ragnar’k—had been a triumvirate since the beginning of 
the journey, tangled together by magick, love, and ancient bonds. As the shadow 
of Ragnar’k fell about them, they became so once again.
Sy-wen fought the intimate touch of the twisted creature. Kast fared no better. 
Sharing his senses, she felt Ragnar’k fill the body he once wore, blending again 
with Kast.
Under assault, Kast swung back toward the fires and the threatened soldiers. 
Through the tumult of madness, a single thought touched her heart. Now.
She dared not hesitate, lest Ragnar’k suspect their treachery. Sy-wen ripped off 
a glove with her teeth as Kast winged near the pit, wings scooping air, slowing, 
claws out to land. Men, horses, and d’warves fled from their path.
With the scrape of nail on rock, Sy-wen gripped the scales of the dragon under 
her. With the touch of her bare fingers, the world vanished into a whirlwind of 
fang, claw, scale, and wing.
Then she was rolling across the stone floor, wrapped in the arms of the man she 
loved. They tumbled for another breath; then she found Kast atop her, staring 
down at her. Both were bruised and sore, but he leaned and kissed her deeply.
Sy-wen sank into his heat and lips, relieved. The quiet in her mind after the 
ravings of Ragnar’k was a balm on her heart. “Kast…” she whispered between his 
lips. “I have you back.”
He responded to her words with passion, holding her tighter. He reached to her 
bare hand, entwining his fingers, squeezing harder and harder until passion 
turned to pain. His mouth covered her gasp. Then teeth found her lips, biting, 
drawing blood.
“Kast!” she cried.
He pulled back, her blood on his lips. His eyes opened, and crimson flames 
glowed back at her. “Bonded,” he hissed. “You are mine!”
Tyrus raced from far across the chamber, using his reins to whip his mount 
across the floor. It dodged right and left around the torch poles. Moments ago, 
he had watched the two dragons merge—flesh and smoke. Then the transformation 
had flared.
Tyrus had instantly understood what the mer’ai woman had attempted: to merge the 
spirit dragon back into its own body, then trap it with her magick inside Kast.
Sy-wen screamed, echoing across the room. Something had clearly gone wrong.
Kast pinned the struggling woman to the stone, but she got a hand free and raked 
him across the face. He merely laughed.
Tyrus kicked his horse, urging it to close the hundred paces between them.
But he was not the only one in motion. From around the edge of the fire pit, 
Blyth thundered on his own mount. He was closer. He raced to the struggling 
pair, leaning out of his saddle. With one hand, Blyth snatched the warrior braid 
of the Bloodrider.
“Get off her, you oaf!” his first mate bellowed as he rode past. Kast was torn 
from his perch and flung aside.
“No!” Sy-wen screamed, lunging to keep one hand clutched to her mate. But a dark 
explosion blasted outward. Sy-wen was tossed back; even Blyth was unsaddled by 
the eruption as man became dragon again. The black-scaled beast crouched on the 
stone, stark against the backdrop of towering flames. Silver claws gouged the 
glassy floor. It stretched its neck and roared, trumpeting its rage to the roof.
Blyth crab-crawled back to Sy-wen. Both lay in the monster’s shadow. His first 
mate’s mount was gone.
Ragnar’k lowered its muzzle toward them. Its eyes matched the flames behind it, 
bright and hungry.
Blyth yanked out his sword, gaining his feet, shoving Sy-wen behind him, ready 
to shield her.
Damn fool! Tyrus cursed. It was the wrong time for his first mate to develop a 
chivalrous streak. He whipped his horse, but he was still too far away.
Then off to the left, a flanking cadre of d’warves appeared, led by Wen-nar. 
They dropped to one knee in unison, bows in hand. Arrows flew in a deadly arc, 
pelting the dragon. Most bounced off the hard scales, but a handful struck deep, 
tailed feathers quivering.
Ragnar’k jolted up, wings sweeping out, roaring again with rage.
JAMES CLEMENS
The d’warves held their posts, fresh arrows nocked. Wennar yelled. “Again!”
The barrage flew—but this time, the dragon was ready. A wing struck out, 
knocking aside the arrows. They fell with a scatter.
Ragnar’k swung his neck, bringing his muzzle back toward Blyth and Sy-wen. The 
dragon roared, revealing long fangs. Blyth braced himself.
Tyrus was almost to them, coming up on the dragon’s wounded left side. He yelled 
to draw its attention. “Yahhhl”
A wing snapped, meant to smash him from his saddle. But Tyrus was already gone. 
He sprang to a crouch in his saddle, then leaped away, flying through the air, 
over the wide wing, hands outstretched. He willed the last of his magickal 
reserves to his fingers. They went black instantly, fed by his panic.
A scream rose from beyond the bulk of the dragon.
Then Tyrus landed atop Ragnar’k. He drove his fingers under the thick scales to 
the tender flesh beneath and unleashed his magick. He felt scale harden, 
trapping his fingers. This proved lucky: Ragnar’k bucked as flesh turn to stone. 
He tried to throw Tyrus off, but the pirate prince was melded to the beast. 
Flung about, he fed his magick in a fierce rush, emptying his heart. Again he 
felt the dull disinterest in his own mortality.
Senses ebbed. He heard a roar of alarm, and distantly he felt the dragon’s fight 
die away, fading like himself. Granite flowed outward through wings, down a long 
neck, into clawed feet. Then with a final push, all was stone.
Both dragon and rider, trapped for eternity.
Tyrus was aware of his heart. Its beat faltered from a solid rhythm to a 
quivering bag of writhing snakes. He allowed himself to fall toward darkness. It 
was over.
He slipped away from cold stone to something warmer. Then a light grew around 
him, bathing him, wrapping him. He felt something touch his lips. It took him a 
moment to realize it was a kiss.
He knew who held him now. He had only tasted those lips once, but it was enough. 
The stone of his heart melted into joy. A name formed on his lips. Mycelle…
He was not answered. He was still too far off, he sensed.
Mycelle, I’m coming to you.
The warm light resisted him, holding him back. No, my love, you must stay.
His heart broke. / have no reason. You were always my light. And I always will 
be… But now it is not your time. I wish it, he said with as much command as he 
could muster. A sternness grew. You wish to die hfye a pirate… but what I ask of 
you is much harder. There was a long silence. Rather than die like a pirate, you 
must live like a prince. You are needed. For me, live like a prince.
Tyrus sought words to argue, but deep inside him, he understood her truth. He 
held onto her a moment longer, wrapped in her light, taking some of it into his 
heart. Then he let her go. Promise me… he whispered.
You know I already have. And then nothingness. He was alone. With the bit of 
warmth and light held to him, he melted the stone around his heart. The fist of 
muscle in his chest beat weakly… once, twice, and again, stronger, marking the 
time until they would be reunited again.
Stone melted to flesh. He felt himself slip from atop the granite dragon, but 
arms were already there, catching him. Vision swirled back, but the world had 
darkened since last he saw. He looked right and left. Fletch and Hurl held him 
upright. Beyond them, the flames were gone from the fire pit.
“The fire died along with the dragon,” Hurl explained, reading his confused 
expression.
He took deep breaths, working the stone from the corners of his being.
The dragon filled the world on one side, a granite sculpture of perfect form. It 
sat on its haunches, wings tucked, neck curled to bring its muzzle close to the 
floor. Tyrus was close enough to feel the heat steaming off it. It was like 
standing by a giant coal, fresh from the hearth.
“Blyth,” Hurl began, drawing his attention back. “He…” The Northman shook his 
head.
Tyrus then remembered: the dragon, his first mate, and Sy-wen. Fear brought his 
legs under him. He glanced to Fletch, but the Steppeman wouldn’t meet his gaze. 
“Take me to him,” he ordered.
Together, they circled a group of d’warves gaping at the stone dragon, to where 
Wennar knelt over Blyth. Blood pooled under them both. Sy-wen knelt at the edge, 
face buried in her arms, sobbing.
Tyrus hurried forward, sure Blyth was already gone. But he found the man alive. 
Wennar had a thick wad of cloth pressed to the first mate’s side. Only then did 
Tyrus notice Blyth’s left arm was gone, clear to the shoulder.
JAMES LLEMENS
Wennar spoke as Tyrus sank to his knees. “The dragon bit the limb clean off.”
Blyth struggled to speak and ended up coughing a gout of blood instead.
Tyrus took his hand. “I should’ve been faster,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
Blyth shook his head. “Pirates live short lives. Shorter than princes.”
Tyrus frowned. “I’m no prince—”
“Don’t say that again,” Blyth blurted fiercely, ending in a racking cough. He 
gasped and caught his breath. “I knew you were always a prince. It’s high time 
you saw it.”
Tyrus did not know how to respond.
“Don’t mourn me.” His first mate’s fingers clenched on his as a spasm of pain 
lanced through the man. He grimaced. “I got to ride to battle with a prince… and 
call him friend.” Despite the pain, pride filled the other’s voice.
Tyrus smiled sadly. “Who said you were my friend?”
Blyth smiled back, a pirate’s smile, but also a man’s. He gave Tyrus’ fingers a 
final squeeze. Then the light faded from his eyes, his smile dimmed, and he was 
gone.
After a long moment, Tyrus sighed and stood. “Be at peace, my friend.” Mycelle’s 
words came back to him. For me, live like a prince. He made a promise. For her, 
for Blyth, he would try his best.
Sy-wen still knelt as the pirate’s blood seeped to her knees. She had seen 
Ragnar’k lunge and snap Blyth up, lifting him off his feet, then throwing him 
down.
But worst of all, the dragon’s savage delight had washed into her, and it had 
felt like her own. Her heart had beat harder, surging with lusts, as the man was 
dropped bloody to her feet. A gift.
She covered her face, sobbing. Then she had watched the dragon petrify into 
granite. Still tied to Ragnar’k, she had heard him fading away, falling down a 
well without bottom, dragging Kast with him to a stony grave.
She rocked in place, unable to fathom the tragedy. She had lost everything.
Then Lord Tyrus touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sy-wen.” he said. “Kast saved 
us all. The dragon would’ve consumed all in its path.”
She nodded. “I know.” She stared up at the dragon, not knowing whether to curse 
or mourn Ragnar’k. His great muzzle lay almost on the floor, as if he were just 
reclining toward slumber. His eyes stared at her, no longer afire, just plain 
granite. She knew the giant had been sorely used, but she had yet to find her 
way to forgive him. Her grief was too raw.
Wennar spoke from a few steps away. “What do you make of this?” The d’warf 
general stood at the edge of the hole. “The fire pit’s gone cold.
The rock’s not even warm.“
Tyrus stood. “I think the flames and the demon dragon were connected, some 
volcanic magick.” He nodded to the stone giant and held out a palm. “Feel how he 
still burns like a coal. The fires must have been drawn into him. The heat is 
fading, though—cooling as the granite sets.” Wennar eyed the dragon, then waved 
them over. “Come see this.” Tyrus reached to help Sy-wen up, but she shook her 
head. She did not have the strength to care. Though she lived, her heart was as 
much stone as the dragon and man she loved. “Leave me be,” she moaned.
He tugged her to her feet. Anger flared. She had to restrain herself from 
striking him, but he pulled her around to face him. “You live,” he said 
fiercely. “Kast and Ragnar’k gave their lives so you might live—so we all might 
live. You must keep moving.”
A sob escaped her. “How? How is that possible?”
“It’s not. Such grief is beyond anyone to bear. For now, just survive. Move one 
foot in front of the other.”
She began to protest, but Tyrus took her by the shoulders and walked her toward 
the pit. Her legs were leaden from her grief. She felt truly of stone.
Wennar looked upon her with concern. She shook out of Tyrus’ embrace. She would 
stand on her own.
“What did you want us to see?” Tyrus asked.
Wennar nodded to the pit. “If the flames and the dragon were one, then both must 
have been posted here for a reason—a guard dog at the gates, so to speak.”
Sy-wen glanced down the hole. Far below, molten rock glowed ruddily.
“Do you see those steps?” Wennar said, sweeping his ax toward the walls of the 
pit.
She glanced to the sides, her eyes widening. Along the inside of the pit, a 
spiraling staircase wound down into the depths.
Wennar spoke. “If a demon as fierce as the dragon was set to guard this path, 
then it must be important.”
Tyrus nodded. “It must lead into the heart of the mountain itself.”
“Perhaps to the lair of the Dark Lord.” Wennar gripped his ax in both meaty 
fists.
Sy-wen’s grief flamed into anger. Her hand fell to her belt, to the line of 
stunners fastened there. If she had to live, then here she found a reason to 
act: revenge. “We must descend,” she said. She looked to Tyrus and Wennar. Their 
faces were hard, their eyes flinty.
“How could we not?” Tyrus said. “It cost us much blood to open this gate. We 
won’t let those deaths go to waste.”
Wennar quickly organized his forces, leaving some behind to tend the wounded. 
Sy-wen walked back to the dragon. It crouched, steaming slightly in the damp 
air.
Tyrus kept near her shoulder. She sensed the sliver of guilt in the prince. 
“Maybe once this is over,” he said softly, “I can try freeing the dragon.”
Sy-wen took a long moment. How she wanted to latch onto this one hope. But she 
had seen the flames glowing from their eyes. Ragnar’k was too strong. And even 
if they could bring him back to flesh, Ragnar’k was an ill’guard. It would be 
near to impossible to reverse the corruption. And how many more deaths would it 
take for even the attempt?
“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “Ragnar’k arose from stone; let him return 
to his stony slumber. That’s where he belongs.”
“But Kast… he doesn’t belong in there.”
Sy-wen crossed to stand near the muzzle of the giant. She reached out with a 
hand. Was her love in there? Did he sense her? The heat from the granite was 
rapidly fading. She touched the scaled cheek of the dragon. It remained warm, as 
if he were still alive. As she drew her hand back, a burn suddenly flamed her 
fingers. She yanked her arm back, startled.
“What’s wrong?” Tyrus asked.
She leaned closer, examining the dragon. From both his wide nostrils, thin 
streams of steam wafted out, hard to discern against the black granite. She had 
accidentally scalded her fingers. She shook her head and straightened. “It’s 
just the last traces of the volcanic heat, steaming away.”
Tyrus nodded. “We should ready ourselves for the descent.”
Sy-wen turned to go, shaking her stinging fingers. She had scalded the same hand 
when she bathed Rodricko’s flower in the smoke of the
»
T “ -T
volcanic crevice. That one act had ultimately led to this tragedy, but it had 
also unlocked the gate here. She glanced back to the dragon. All because of a 
child’s prophecy—Sheeshon’s dream had led them all here.
She pictured the young girl’s face, so bright with hope in this dark time. Even 
her simple love for the boy Rodricko was a beacon of the future, of lives to 
come. She touched the pocket of her sharkskin suit, where she still carried the 
bud from the boy’s bloom. She pulled the flower free. Its purple petals were 
still closed in a tight bud. She wondered when it would open; it had taken the 
volcanic smoke from the crevice to fully bloom Ro-dricko’s flower…
It had taf{en smoke! She whirled around.
Tyrus noted her sudden movement. “Sy-wen… ?”
She remembered the prince’s own words. Kast… he doesn’t belong in there. She 
strode back to the dragon. Was she too late?
“What are you doing?” Tyrus asked.
“Trusting in a child’s gift,” she answered. She thrust the bud into the smoky 
flow of steam from the dragon’s nostrils. Sy-wen ignored the burn. With the 
touch of petal to smoke, Sy-wen felt a jolt of energy rock through her. She 
gasped.
In her fingers, the bud bloomed, petals curling back, revealing a fiery heart.
Tyrus stood behind her. “What is this you attempt?” Sy-wen trembled, suddenly 
less sure. She slowly pulled the flower from the stream, stepping back. As she 
withdrew, the smoke seemed to follow her, drawn to the bloom. She continued to 
retreat. Fingers of smoke clutched the bloom along with her, flowing back into a 
misty arm.
Tears flowed down her cheeks. Afraid to speak, she stepped back farther. With 
each step, she drew a figure from the smoke. She went slowly, allowing time for 
the form to take shape. But the stream from the dragon’s nostrils was rapidly 
diminishing. She sensed that if she didn’t pull the figure free before the smoke 
ceased, all would be lost. In her fear and hope, she stumbled.
The fragile figure dispersed, shaken by her bobbled arm.
“Careful,” Tyrus said at her back, now supporting her shoulder.
She held the flower steady, and the form grew sharper again. Tyrus walked her 
back, holding her. Before them, the clear shape of a man took form. She could 
not mistake the shadow. “Kast,” she moaned.
“A little farther,” Tyrus urged. “Hurry. The dragon goes cold.” Sy-wen took 
another step, and suddenly the figure coalesced into perfect symmetry—a 
sculpture of Kast in smoke. Together they clutched the single bud between them. 
Sy-wen could not stop her legs from trembling. The beautiful sight was blurred 
by tears. “My love…”
He remained silent, a shadow.
She knew what she had to do. With her free hand, she reached to his smoky cheek. 
“I have need of you.” She poured all her love into those few words.
Magick ignited between them, but instead of calling forth a dragon, smoke turned 
to flesh under her touch. It spread out from her fingers, bringing substance and 
life out of nothingness. In moments, Kast stood before her, pale but whole.
“Sy-wen,” he mumbled, almost in disbelief.
She lowered her fingers, barely noting that his dragon tattoo was once again a 
plain seahawk. Ragnar’k was gone. She hugged the man who held her heart. “Don’t 
ever leave me.”
“Never again.” Her touch clearly assured him all was real. He wrapped her in his 
arms, lifting her high. They kissed, melting one into the other. They were only 
two now, but that was enough for anyone.
Kast followed Tyrus down the winding stairs. His hand remained firmly in 
Sy-wen’s. The steps were wide enough for four to walk abreast, but the heat and 
the sheer drop to the molten rock far below kept them walking in pairs, sticking 
close to the walls of the pit.
Ahead, Tyrus consulted in quiet tones with Wennar. Behind them marched a pair of 
pirates, one bright, the other dark, a North Coaster and a Steppeman. They had 
outfitted Kast with rough-fitting gear and a long sword. “Was my father’s,” Hurl 
had said with a wink. “Or someone’s father, at least.”
Beyond them stretched a long line of d’warf soldiers, fifty strong, winding back 
toward the distant rim of the pit.
Craning his neck, Kast could make out the stone form of Ragnar’k. During his 
time with the dragon, the border between them had burned away. He could remember 
the monster’s ravings as if they were his own. Still, Kast had also been able to 
sense the dragon’s true heart. For brief moments, he recognized the brightness 
under siege—the torment and the struggle. And now Ragnar’k was stone, frozen 
forever.
He turned away with a sigh. He remembered Sy-wen’s words as they set off down 
the stairs, tears in her eyes: We found Ragnar’t sleeping in stone. Perhaps it 
was his fate to return.
Kast took a deep breath, praying the dragon found peace.
Tyrus spoke from below, drawing him out of his thoughts. “A tunnel,” he called, 
pointing down.
Kast stepped nearer the lip. Heat seared his face as he searched the place where 
Tyrus pointed. Below, after another three turns around the pit, the stairs 
seemed to end at the mouth of a tunnel. He pulled back, sweat hot on his brow. 
So there was indeed an end to this stair. They had all feared it would simply 
wind down into the molten rock.
With a goal in sight, they increased their pace. The heat grew more intense with 
each step. The air seared the lungs, while the smell of sulfurous brimstone 
gagged the throat. They were all gasping and sweating as they made the final 
turn. Their march became a rush toward the tunnel— anything to escape the 
choking depths of the pit.
Kast supported Sy-wen under one arm. As a mer’ai, a creature of the cool sea, 
she wilted like kelp on a blistering beach. He hurried her toward the shelter of 
the tunnel, pressing Tyrus and Wennar onward. By the time they reached the 
tunnel’s mouth, he was carrying Sy-wen, her toes dragging across the stone.
They all tumbled into the dark depths of the passage, moving forward half 
blindly to make room for the others behind them. Vaguely Kast could make out 
Wennar struggling to free an oiled brand from his pack. Tyrus was already 
striking his flint, casting sparks in the gloom.
Still they moved into the darkness, miraculously cool after the intense heat. 
Sy-wen gasped, able to get her legs under her, though they still trembled.
Kast held her.
Light flared as the torch took the spark. Wennar lifted his brand high and 
marched on so the entire d’warf legion could push into the coolness.
Kast stared ahead. The tunnel seemed to stretch forever, a slightly curving, 
bored-out passage.
“A lava flow tube,” Wennar said. “I’ve seen its like before.” He continued 
deeper.
They followed, gaining strength from the cool interior. Even the air seemed less 
clogged with sulfurs and noxious fumes, almost freshening, though the tunnel 
headed downward, spiraling tighter, deeper under the mountain. By now they had 
to be below the level of the sea. This thought did not give him any comfort.
As they continued down the passage, Kast caught the wink of reflection ahead. 
Tyrus noted it, too. “Something sparks brightly.”
They marched forward, drawing closer. The reflected torchlight came from small 
cubbies, the size of ripe pumpkins, dug out of the walls. Inside were shallow 
stone basins, and each held a single small orb of red crystal.
“Heartstone,” Sy-wen said with amazement. As they stared, a drop fell from the 
roof of the cubby and struck the stone before them, giving off a tiny chime.
“Blood,” Kast said in horror.
Sy-wen leaned closer, then shook her head. “No, not blood. At least not blood 
like we know it. It’s liquid heartstone.” She reached to the stone, by-wen… no!
She touched the seemingly bloody orb, then showed her finger. “These orbs are 
chunks of heartstone formed from the drips of the Land’s own blood.”
Tyrus spoke a few steps away, “No, they’re not orbs.” He pointed into the cubby 
before him.
Kast joined him. In this cubby, the orb had grown large enough that a certain 
shape was clear: oval, pointed more at the top where the drips fell atop it, 
wider at the base, taking the bowled shape of the basin. The shape was 
unmistakable.
“Eggs,” Sy-wen said, covering her mouth.
Kast nodded. “Harlequin Quail said he saw a hall full of such eggs. Here is 
where they must be formed, awaiting the Dark Lord’s touch to fill them with 
corruption and transform heartstone into ebon’stone.”
“But why hide this tunnel so diligently, guard it with the dragon?” Tyrus asked.
Kast pondered this question, glancing down the length of tunnel and its hundreds 
of cubbies. He turned to Wennar. “I need your men to gather all their weapons… 
everything… hammers, swords, axes, even arrowheads.”
“Why?” the d’warf general asked.
From farther down the tunnel, one of the d’warf scouts came running back. 
“There’s light ahead! The tunnel ends in another half league!”
Wennar turned to Kast, eyes questioning what to do.
Kast told him. And after a moment of arguing, Wennar grumbled about the needless 
delay but ordered his men to obey, stretching them along the length of the 
passages, positioning them before each cubby.
“Why are you doing this?” Sy-wen asked.
“Because it’s always been about heartstone.”
Once they were finished, Kast led them down the passage, which wound tighter and 
tighter. The cubbies disappeared, and plain rock covered the walls again. Soon a 
strong light appeared ahead, shining silver, down the tunnel…
Kast held everyone back while he crept ahead on his own. What lies beyond? He 
took a deep breath, readied himself, then shoved forward.
Standing stark in the light, sword in hand, he stared out into the chamber 
beyond. His eyes shot wide, and he bit back a gasp. Sweet Mother!
Elena knelt in the eye of a tempest as savage war raged around her. The bone 
army had risen again, battled back by Tol’chuk and Magnam, while Joach spun his 
staff, casting forth fonts of balefire.
“Hurry, Elena,” Er’ril urged. He crouched over her, sword at the ready. 
Harlequin guarded her other side, daggers glinting.
From the corner of an eye, she saw Thorn, in wolf form, snatched by dark 
tendrils writhing down from above. But Fardale leaped upward, sword in hand, a 
howl on his lips. He cut her free with a double-fisted swipe. They tumbled to 
the silver floor, where Mogweed helped them up, glancing warily around.
Behind her, she felt the backwash of Meric’s winds. The elv’in battered any 
skaPtum who tried to take wing, driving each back against the wall. Once there, 
Nee’lahn tangled legs and wings in a fist of roots, trapping them to the wall. 
Here on the lake of pure elemental energy, their powers remained strong.
But despite their best efforts, the group was near to being overwhelmed. They 
could not maintain this defense for long. In the center of the room, the 
blackguard figure of Ly’chuk loomed—and they had no hope of defeating the Dark 
Lord. They were unprepared for such a battle. He should not have been here. He 
was supposed to have been half a world away in the volcanic creches of 
Blackhall.
Elena’s mind spun with terror. Their only hope now was to retreat to the tunnels 
and regroup. But to achieve even that, they needed her mag-ick. And the Dark 
Lord stood square in the single spear of moonlight in the room.
Another way was needed.
°
Her pale hands shook as she struggled the Blood Diary from out of her cloak and 
placed the tome on the shiny floor. Its gilt rose shone with blinding radiance, 
reflecting the brightness of the midsummer full moon. “We haven’t much time,” 
Er’ril urged her again.
Taking a deep breath, she flung open the book. The pages inside vanished, 
opening a window into a night sky of dense stars and billowing radiant gases: 
the Void. From this otherworldly landscape, a river of brilliance shot forth, 
pouring onto this world. A form took shape, hovering before her. Er’ril helped 
Elena to her feet.
Moonstone sculpted into a woman, wispy with swirls of light. She was as bright 
as the Dark Lord was black. Eyes glanced to Elena, glowing with the same 
starlight as the Void. “Cho,” Elena said.
The figure barely noted her, turning to survey the room. All fell quiet before 
her gaze. The bone army froze in place; the writhing roof slowed its tangle; the 
screams of the skal’tum went quiet.
In the silence that followed, a single word chimed. “Chi.” The section of the 
bone army that stood between Cho and the center of the room crumbled and 
clattered to the floor. The dark figure of ebon’stone waited, staring back at 
the moonstone entity. “You!” Cho cried, drifting forward a step. “You hold Chi!” 
Elena waved for Er’ril to grab the Diary. She followed in the wake of the 
spirit.
The Dark Lord answered her, mocking and dark. “Chi is mine, for all time.”
Elena glanced to Er’ril with concern. Chi was still trapped; they had been too 
late in breaking the Wyvern Gate. With horror, she realized the Dark Lord was 
not just a blackguard, but also a Weirgate himself. How could they hope to 
defeat such an enemy ?
Under the monster’s ebon’stone feet, the silver lake had gone black. The 
corruption of the confluence was already under way. While they fought to 
survive, the Black Beast had begun his assault upon the world’s heart.
“/ will not allow it!” Cho cried with anguish. “Free Chi!”
“You hold no sway here,” he said darkly. “Fight me and see what I can do!” His 
eyes flared.
Cho suddenly screamed. “No!” She flew back to Elena and Er’ril, hands covering 
her face. “Stop it!” She sank to her knees on the silver floor.
“What’s wrong?” Elena asked.
“Chi screams… The darkness tears at him …”
“Torture,” Er’ril whispered. “He’s torturing Chi.”
The flare of brightness in the ebon’stone figure dimmed again. “You’re too late 
anyway.” His eyes dismissed the weeping figure. “You’re all too late.” He 
stalked forward. Where he stepped on the silver lake, the floor went black. 
Trails of darkness snaked out from each footprint. “I will have my justice on 
the Land!”
Er’ril stepped forward. “By corrupting it?”
The Black Beast focused on Er’ril. “No, by destroying it. I will tear the living 
heart from the world and crush it in my stone fist.”
Elena had caught the signal from Er’ril as he had stepped out. He had motioned 
to Cho, indicating Elena should renew her magick. She crouched down beside the 
spirit.
“I need your power,” she whispered, thrusting her hands toward Cho.
The spirit studied her pale fingers and shook her head. “No.”
Elena’s brow furrowed. She pushed her hands into the wispy figure, willing the 
magick to flow into her—but nothing happened. Her fingers remained pale.
The next words from the spirit were warmer. “Only Cho can grant you her power.”
Elena glanced up. The eyes that stared at her now were plain, empty of the Void. 
“Aunt Fila.”
A small nod. “Cho refuses. She sees the flows of power here better than you. 
Ebon’stone and the swirl of energy here hold her brother trapped. There is no 
hope of freeing him, and any attempt to fight means torturing Chi. I’ve heard 
his cries, echoing through Cho to me.” Her face grew grim. “It is unfathomable 
the pain he feels. Cho cannot add to it. And I don’t blame her.”
Elena clenched two fists inside the misty shape. “But unless we stop him, the 
demon means to destroy the world. I must have her power.”
“Would you rip it from her, like the Dark Lord has done to Chi?”
Elena dropped her arms. “So we are defeated?”
Aunt Fila glanced past her, to the side. “The future is never set. Sometimes 
paths open that none could foretell. ”
Elena craned around. She saw Tol’chuk push forward past Er’ril. The og’re stared 
across the silver lake to his dark twin. “Why?” he said simply.
“Watch,” Aunt Fila whispered at Elena’s side. “Sometimes fate can be changed 
with a single word.”
Wit ch Star
Tol’chuk faced his og’re ancestor. “Why?” he repeated. “Why do you do this?” He 
studied the dark sculpture of himself, even raising a hand to his own face. The 
likeness was remarkable, but upon closer inspection, he could see small 
differences. The ebon’stone figure stood slightly shorter, but broader of 
shoulder. Legs and arms were thicker, more like a true og’re’s. But like 
Tol’chuk, his ebon’stone counterpart stood straight-backed instead of knuckling 
on an arm.
The fiery eyes focused on him. “My last seed,” he said with a rumble of anger.
Tol’chuk furrowed his brow. His mixed blood—og’re and si’luran— made it 
impossible for him to father offspring. The direct line to Ly’chuk would end 
upon Tol’chuk’s death.
The two faced each other from a span of twenty steps and a spread of centuries, 
an og’re of flesh, an og’re of ebon’stone. Despite the risk, Tol’chuk had to 
know more. Here stood the source of his cursed lineage. He could not help but 
wonder how much of this monster was in himself. Were their similarities deeper 
than just features? He had to know, so he started at the beginning. “Why did you 
break your oath to the Land?”
Ly’chuk spat, eyes flaring. “The Land deserves no oath.” In those fiery eyes, 
Tol’chuk saw only disdain. “I see what you’re searching for. We two are more 
alike than you know, He-who-walks-like-a-man.” This last was spoken mockingly.
“How so?”
“Can you not guess?”
Tol’chuk frowned, but the answer came from behind him. Magnam, ever his shadow, 
spoke. “Each of you is only half an og’re.”
Startled, Tol’chuk suddenly recognized the truth of Magnam’s words: the straight 
spine and other subtle differences. “You be half si’luran, like myself?”
“No,” Magnam said, stepping closer. “He’s half d’warf.”
Tol’chuk’s eyes widened.
“On my father’s side,” the stone figure answered coldly. “A d’warf trader. He 
abused an og’re female of the Toktala clan and left her with her belly swelling. 
Like you, I was born a half-breed among clans where bloodlines were everything. 
It was only my elemental skills that won me honor and respect: my ability to 
read, bolster, and refine another’s talents.”
“That gift came from the Land,” Magnam reminded. “A Land you seek to destroy.”
Ly’chuk’s eyes flared crimson. “The Land gives no gifts” he said fiercely. 
“Everything comes with a price that must be paid.”
Tol’chuk heard the ancient pain in the other’s voice. “Why do you say that?”
Ly’chuk glanced back to the others. During this short truce, no one moved, each 
fixed on this tale. Ly’chuk faced Tol’chuk again. “Like you, I was barren of 
seed—another curse of my father’s lechery.”
Tol’chuk frowned. Ly’chuk could not have been barren, or Tol’chuk couldn’t have 
been born from his lineage. His confused expression was read by his dark 
ancestor.
“Yes, I found a way to thwart this curse. I found a healer with elemental skills 
and used my talents to enhance hers. She was able to heal my loins, to enliven 
my seed. But even this came at a high cost. The healer’s abilities were too 
crude. She burned up with the effort, destroying the Land’s gift in her, 
enfeebling her mind.”
“So you raped her talent,” Tol’chuk said. “In order that you might sire 
children.”
“Like father, like son,” Magnam said under his breath.
The Dark Lord swung toward the d’warf, clenching a fist. Magnam was lifted from 
the floor by invisible bonds, strangling by the throat. “I was nothing like my 
father,” Ly’chuk roared. “Mine was an accident.”
“Let him go!” Tol’chuk boomed, matching his ancestor’s tone.
Ly’chuk glared, then flung Magnam away. The d’warf skidded back to the edge of 
the bone army. Fardale and Thorn went to his aid.
Once it was clear his d’warf friend lived, Tol’chuk focused back to Ly’chuk. 
“What happened after this accident?”
“Nothing. I lived happily and well among the Toktala clan for a full winter. I 
fathered a child. But the morning of his birth, I went to the Spirit Gate, to 
pray for my child, to prepare myself for the oaths to the Land. But…” He fell 
silent, fist tightening. The stained floor under his feet grew darker, fissures 
spreading out from his heels and toes. His next words were as black as the stone 
that made up his figure. “But the hand knew.”
He went silent for a breath. “The Land is a cruel master—far more cruel than I 
have ever been.” A black arm pointed at Nee’lahn and Meric. “You know. You have 
both felt its wrath. The Blight upon your trees and people was the Land’s doing, 
was it not?”
Meric answered. “The nyphai had been trying to change the natural order, to 
spread their trees over all the lands. The Land acted in its own defense.”
“By destroying all, and mercilessly twisting the nyphai. Is that a reasonable 
response? How many others have suffered at the hands of the Grim wraiths since 
then?” His voice rose heatedly. “It is a curse that continued to punish the 
innocent, to torment the afflicted.”
Ly’chuk stared hard at Nee’lahn. Small flames lipped from his dark sockets. She 
lowered her face.
“She knows I speak the truth.” He waved an arm dismissively. “The Land doles its 
magick, but it is not a gift. It is tyranny. Dare step from the boundaries the 
Land has set, and you will be beaten down, punished not once, but for all time. 
As long as the Land exists, we are not allowed to rule our own lives.” His 
breath heaved in and out. “I mean to end this tyranny, to free the world by 
crushing the Spirit Stone and destroying its elemental heart.”
Gasps arose, but Tol’chuk remained silent.
Ly’chuk continued, deaf to their responses, lost in his anger. “You may judge my 
acts evil, but they are a small price for a larger victory. Many have died, so 
all could have a future. After this night, the rest of history will be 
unfettered. The peoples of the world will be free of the magickal yoke of the 
Land.”
Tol’chuk finally spoke. “But what did the Land do to you?” Ly’chuk panted at his 
edge of madness. “What did the Land do to me? Like the Grim, the Land took my 
talent and twisted it foully. It took my skill at honing an elemental’s gift and 
maligned it. I knew from that moment on that all I touched would twist to 
darkness. What the Land did to me, I was doomed to do unto others. I would 
corrupt all the elementals I
touched.“
“Forging ill’guard of them,” Tol’chuk said.
A scowl formed. Ly’chuk must have heard the accusation in his voice. “And why 
not? I was the first of the ill’guard, forged by the Land itself. All the evil 
that flowed from me started there first.”
Tol’chuk began to fathom the depths of derangement here. Centuries of rage, 
humiliation, torment, and perhaps underneath it, even guilt. But mostly his 
ancestor dismissed his own culpability. Ly’chuk couched his revenge and outrage 
in an armor of noble cause.
“I fought the Land that day. I tried to attack the elemental heart, to turn its 
black magick back on itself. But I was too weak. I was battered and torn, but I 
made it through the Spirit Gate. And there the Land faced its own mistake.” A 
bitter laugh followed. “I bled into the Gate. Ill’guard blood! My blood tainted 
all it touched.”
Tol’chuk understood. He had seen the same happen to the Heart of his people when 
Vira’ni’s blood had bathed the stone.
“Around my broken body, the blood of the Land twisted and hardened into 
ebon’stone, encasing me, entombing me. I became a black tumor inside the body of 
the Land. Before my corruption could spread further, the Land was forced to 
expel me, somewhere far from the Spirit Gate.”
“GuPgotha.”
A nod. “Back to my father’s roots, the d’warf homeland. Once there, I reached 
from my tomb and found d’warf miners with elemental abilities. I drew them to 
me, bound them to me, and had them dig me free. Then I set about to build my 
army, to enslave my father’s people. I forged a legion of ill’guard, to turn the 
Land’s gift against itself. I constructed vessels of intense power, four statues 
built from the very stone of my tomb. Manti-core, Wyvern, Basilisk, and Griffin. 
And then as I was about to return to Alasea, a boon came from afar, a spirit of 
immense energy.”
“Chi,” Tol’chuk muttered.
“The spirit became curious of Gul’gotha. It drew too near and was captured 
within the Gates, enslaved as surely as any ill’guard. This Weir of power opened 
all manner of dread magicks. There were no bounds. My first act upon receiving 
this boon was to reach into the Land and rip a hole in its crust, sculpting 
Blackhall from the molten rock of its bowels. It was my foothold back to these 
lands. From there, I searched for a means to again reach the Land’s heart, to 
crush the Spirit Stone. But the Land had grown wary in its age. It knew how to 
use its elemental puppets to thwart me. So over the centuries I learned my 
enemies’ weaknesses, those spots where the elemental flows from the Spirit Stone 
rose close to the surface. I sought to twist the Land as it had twisted me.”
“And now this last assault,” Tol’chuk said.
“You did me a favor destroying the other Weirgates. It concentrated Chi into one 
statue, an unstable situation, and with instability, there is possibility. I saw 
the potential to use this full moon to bring me here from Blackhall. To use the 
energy of the Void to link one to the other, to overlap them.” He pointed to 
Elena. “The wit’ch used this same trick to portal to Moon Lake in the Western 
Reaches.”
Tol’chuk nodded with sudden understanding. No wonder… “And once you reached 
here… ?” he asked aloud.
“I joined with Chi in the last Weirgate, fusing our two forms.”
“And now you mean to use both your powers to attack the Spirit Stone through the 
elemental lake here.”
“At long last, I will have my victory.”
Tol’chuk faced the tormented creature before him. He knew in that moment that 
though they shared the same face, their hearts were as different as night and 
day. He spoke calmly. “I won’t allow it.”
Icy laughter flowed. “You have no choice. None can harm me.” A dark menace 
entered his voice. “And more importantly, none dare harm me. There are worse 
fates than a world ruled by a Dark Lord.”
Tol’chuk stepped back and lifted an arm, signaling the pair of figures who had 
crept into the room behind the Dark Lord’s shoulder. Tol’chuk’s distraction had 
allowed the pair to prepare unobserved. “I will be victorious,” Ly’chuk sneered.
A twang of bowstring punctuated his declaration. Then from the center of his 
chest an arrow bloomed, skewering from behind, piercing fully through the stone 
figure.
Both Tol’chuk and Ly’chuk stared down at the arrowhead. It was encrusted with 
heartstone.
Ly’chuk lifted his fiery gaze to Tol’chuk. “No!”
From around the edges of the hole, ebon’stone changed to heart-stone. Like the 
Heart of the og’res before, a touch of heartstone purified ebon’stone.
“Now!” Kast yelled from the other side of the room. A line of d’warves raced 
into the chamber.
The Dark Lord yanked forth the arrow. Heartstone changed back to ebon’stone. “I 
won’t be defeated that easily. I am living ebon’stone, not a mere chunk of 
rock.”
Tol’chuk scuttled backward.
“I will herald the new age of Alasea,” Ly’chuk boomed, “with all your blood!”
Suddenly the war that had paused began anew. Bone armies re-formed, black 
tendrils writhed, and skal’tum screamed riotously.
A towering creature of bone swiped at Tol’chuk, slicing a ribbon of pain across 
his chest. He swung his hammer, shattering through the mid-section of the 
creature, toppling it over. From the ruins, a new creature arose, smaller but 
quicker, with claws made of sharpened shards. He beat again and again, while 
other monsters closed in.
He glanced around at the chaos. The d’warf army joined the fray, attacking the 
room with weapons that glinted with heartstone. Ly’chuk raged behind him. “You 
have no hope!”
Kast waved the last of the d’warves from the passage. In the chamber, the army 
had split into two forces. Wennar already led one group along the south wall, 
aiming to aid Elena’s party. Kast now followed the tail of the other group with 
Sy-wen, Tyrus, Fletch, and Hurl.
His column looped around the other side of the room. Archers from both sides 
peppered arrows at the stone figure in the room’s center. Kast knew this must be 
the Black Beast of Gul’gotha. The monster knocked many bolts aside with slaps of 
his hand and blasts of searing balefire, but many others struck home, like the 
first arrow from Fletch. Even now, despite the additional weight of the 
heartstone-encrusted tips, the pirate’s aim remained flawless.
And while their strikes had failed to bring down the demon, they kept him off 
balance for the moment, kept him from turning his magick and attention against 
them. Kast was glad he had taken the time to have their forces anoint their 
blades, arrowheads, and axes in the dripping heartstone found in the cubbies, 
layering a sheen of crystal upon their weapons.
Sy-wen noted the same. “How did you know?”
Kast shook his head. “I simply knew.” The Dark Lord had protected that passage 
with the dragon; he must have had reason to fear the treasure it hid. But Kast 
knew he wasn’t being entirely truthful. As he had stared at the dripping 
cubbies, he had sensed a familiar tingle… of Ragnar’t. Whether it was some 
knowledge shared while merged with his demonic twin, or some last prophetic 
sending from the dreaming dragon, Kast had felt a need to coat the weapons.
As he ran, he wished the dragon’s gifts were strong enough to tell him what to 
do now. Kast studied his adversary. He could only imagine the power at hand. 
Perhaps the Dark Lord wasn’t accustomed yet to his new status as both blackguard 
and Weirgate. If so, they dared not give him a chance to gain his footing.
Kast’s mind still quailed at the amount of magick it must have taken to fuse 
Blackhall with this cavern here in Winter’s Eyrie. Was this one of the reasons 
they weren’t all burned to bone by now?
Or was there another reason?
Under the monster, the silver floor was stained black, and the darkness was 
spreading. Kast gaped at the corruption. Were their efforts even a concern to 
this monster? Or merely a nuisance, like flies on a horse?
But then again, even flies could sting.
Kast gripped his sword tighter. He remembered all that had been done to him and 
those he loved, all the good lives spent to bring them to this moment. He would 
not give in to despair, not even when he gasped his last breath.
Across the cavern, the Black Beast howled. “Do you feel it? The Land succumbs!”
«
With the sounds of bones breaking around him, Meric shoved both hands overhead, 
driving a blast of wind into a diving skal’tum. The beast tried to bank away, 
but Meric was quicker. The creature was struck in the chest and driven clear to 
the ceiling.
At his shoulder, Nee’lahn hummed, desperately but firmly. She waved an arm, and 
a nest of roots tangled forth from the high stone and snagged the demon.
“Another,” she warned, pointing left.
Reaching out, Meric drew wind from the blustery night, still wet from the 
storms, and swept it toward their new foe. The skal’tum bobbled—then the winds 
suddenly died, extinguished like a snuffed candle.
Nee’lahn gasped. “The woodsong… it’s gone!” From the walls and ceilings, roots 
suddenly drooped. Skal’tum dropped from their wooden cages, enraged.
Dark laughter flowed to them. “The Land is almost mine!” Meric realized what had 
happened. “He’s cut us off from the flow of elemental magick!” A despair settled 
to his heart, he sensed their doom. He had come to these forests to return a 
king to his people. And now all was lost: both royal families sundered, his 
people scattered to the winds or dying in the clouds in this last great war. And 
to what end?
He reached a hand out. Fingers entwined into his own. He found comfort there. 
Come what may, he would not face this night alone.
Overhead, the flock of skal’tum gathered, ready to drop upon their group.
Around them, the others were faring no better.
JOACH SPUN HIS STAFF, CASTING FORTH FONTS OF BALEFIRE, TURNING BONE TO
ash. But his dark magick was a beacon to the twining snakes of darkness. He had 
cast illusions of himself to confound the grasping tendrils, but suddenly all 
his dream-sculpted twins vanished, along with his elemental magick. He had only 
a bit left, stored in his staff, but he held it in reserve.
With his illusions gone, he was alone, exposed.
A bone dog leaped at him, taking advantage of his startled state. It dove for 
his throat, but this demonic creature was beat out by its own ally.
A thick band of darkness dropped a noose around Joach’s neck and yanked him 
upward, choking. The bone dog shot under his heels and away, to meet a crushing 
death under the hammer of Magnam.
Gasping, Joach brought his staff up and cast a stream of balefire at the 
constricting rope of darkness, but the black energies only seemed to strengthen 
the noose. His vision tightened to a small knot. He could not breathe at all.
His body swung around in time to see an ax flying toward his face. If he’d had 
breath, he would have screamed. The ax cleaved just over his head, all but 
parting his hair, and suddenly he was falling. He struck the floor hard, and 
rolled away just before a bony behemoth stomped him.
Magnam shoved a sword into his free hand. “Here, plain steel will serve you 
better.”
Joach nodded, taking the weapon. “Thank you.”
Magnam grinned, swinging around in time to take a sickle of bone through the 
chest. The d’warf was lifted high, impaled, his blood flowing down the white 
bone of the blade.
Joach stared in horror as Magnam was thrown lifeless through the air. Joach 
lifted the sword as the same bloody creature turned toward him.
How many more would die?
MOGWEED HID IN A CLUSTER OF BOULDERS SHELTERED AGAINST ONE WALL. He was no 
fighter. He crouched with a dagger in one hand and a short sword in the other. 
Nothing could get at him here. To enter the cramped space, he’d had to flow his 
flesh and squeeze through a gap too small to allow in any real threat. He 
watched the battle from his shelter.
Thorn raced past in her wolf form, chased by a pair of bone creatures. Mogweed 
had no real concern. He had watched her ploy a few times. As she leaped a 
certain boulder, Fardale would pop up with two short swords in hand and cleave 
the monster’s legs off. The limbless beasts would crash to the stone and 
shatter. Then the trap would be set again.
But this time Fardale wasn’t waiting. Thorn landed and spun around, searching 
for her partner. The moment’s distraction was all it took. The two bone beasts 
struck her full broadside. Razored claws tore deep gashes. Then she was down, 
under them both.
Before Mogweed knew what he was doing, he was running across the floor, bounding 
over rubble. He bore his sword and dagger and shifted into a half-wolf form for 
more speed. He leaped the boulder and struck the two beasts in a tackle, driving 
them from Thorn’s side. He rolled to his feet and hacked and slashed.
Panic and fear turned him wild. Bone shattered all around him. Soon he was just 
fighting empty air. Gasping, he fell back to Thorn. She lay on her side, blood 
pooled under her, still in wolf form. Her breathing was wet.
Mogweed glanced up, searching for help. Motion drew his eye from overhead. A 
skal’tum dove toward him, wings tucked, claws outstretched, mouth open in a 
silent snarl. Mogweed could not move, frozen in place by terror.
Then just before the monster struck, a huge dark shape leaped over Mogweed’s 
head and struck the skal’tum, tumbling away with it. Mogweed cried out, gaining 
his feet, ready to flee.
The skal’tum and his adversary struck the rubble of boulders. A gnashing, 
snarling fight ensued. Mogweed spotted dark fur in flashes behind the beating 
wings. Fardalel
Blades in hand, Mogweed leaped toward the pair. But before he even took a second 
step, the skal’tum was peppered with arrows. The d’warves had finally reached 
them.
The skal’tum screeched and fluttered up, trying to escape, but a well-thrown ax, 
shining ruby, split its skull and sent it wheeling back to crash against the 
wall.
Mogweed ignored it and ran to his brother’s side. “Fardale!” He skidded to his 
knees. Bloody claw marks raked his brother’s shoulder. Poison sizzled from the 
wound.
Like himself, Fardale was in his half-wolf form. “Thorn… ?” His voice was harsh 
with a pain that had nothing to do with the deep wound.
Mogweed simply shook his head.
“I… I was chased away by another skal’tum. I couldn’t get back in time.” Fardale 
clutched his arm. “I saw what you did… what you attempted…”
Mogweed rocked in place, choked on tears. “Why?” he croaked out.
Fardale met his gaze, amber eyes glowing. You are my brother.
His silent words made no sense to him. Fardale had sacrificed himself to save 
him. His heart clenched too tight. Why? he repeated.
A wolfish sigh escaped Fardale. His sending grew fainter. Like it or not, we are 
one. Whether you see it in yourself or not, we are twins.
Mogweed shook his head. Around them, the fighting grew more fierce as the 
d’warves smashed into the monsters with their ruby weapons.
There is much in you that you have yet to discover.
“Fardale…”
Care for my son… your son…
“He is not my son.” His voice cracked. What did Fardale think he could give a 
child?
His brother tightened his hold on his arm. Promise me.
“I… I don’t… I can’t…”
Fardale stared into his eyes, too weak now to speak, even to send. But in those 
eyes, Mogweed saw everything… maybe everything he could be.
With tears flowing, he nodded.
His brother’s fingers slipped from his arm. He was gone.
Mogweed rolled from his side and half crawled back to Thorn, expecting her to 
have already passed. But as he neared her, he saw her chest move weakly.
She must have sensed his presence. A moan escaped her, full of hope.
He sidled up to her, coming into sight.
Her eyes glowed. Fardale…
Mogweed began to object, then realized in his half-wolf form that he was indeed 
his brother’s twin.
You live. He sensed her relief across the fading bond.
He stared into her eyes.
Our son…
Mogweed took a deep breath. “I’ll take good care of him. He’ll live a long and 
happy life. I promise this.”
She sighed, content. He leaned to her and pressed his cheek to hers, one wolf 
saying good-bye to another.
A scuff sounded as Tol’chuk rushed up. He stared among them, his eyes suddenly 
crinkling, unsure.
Mogweed stood. For most of his life, he had been the master of lies. While 
others had skills of magick or blade, his only talent was a well-turned tongue. 
For this one last time, he would tell one great lie. He met the og’re’s gaze. 
“Mogweed’s dead.”
Tol’chuk covered his face. “Fardale, I be so sorry.” He then turned away. “But 
we must hurry. We are far from finished here.”
He nodded and glanced back to the pair of bodies. A moment ago, he had wondered 
what he could give Fardale’s son. He now had his answer. He could give him back 
his father.
Elena had failed. Cho would not help in the battle against the Dark Lord; she 
hid somewhere, mourning, leaving only Aunt Fila here to offer guidance.
Around them, the fighting raged. There seemed no end to this war, no way to win. 
The bone army simply re-formed. The tendrils from the sky regenerated when 
sliced. And the skal’tum continued to seep into the chamber from the tunnel that 
led to the pit.
O
At least they had the help of the d’warf army—but it was only more fodder for 
the monsters.
She stared around at her companions on this long journey. They were far fewer 
than when they first entered the pit.
Er’ril met her eyes. “Are you ready to attempt this?” She nodded and stood. He 
reached a hand to hers, but she drew back. His eyes widened with understanding. 
She examined her fingers and palms. They were no longer pale, but whorled in 
dark crimson. It wasn’t her Rose. Cho still refused to let her renew, even in 
the moonlight.
It was simply blood—but the Dark Lord didn’t know that. She remembered something 
Mycelle had once told her. Sometimes the strongest magic’t is the strength in 
one’s heart. She took courage from these words and glanced through the fighting 
to the ebon’stone figure. “Let’s go.”
An escort of d’warf ax soldiers forged a path toward the center of the room. 
Underneath, the floor went from silver to black as they neared their quarry. 
Beside her marched Tol’chuk, with Aunt Fila trailing a few paces behind, amid 
wisps of moonlight.
“That’s as close as we dare,” Er’ril said. She nodded. The escort of guards 
parted before her. She faced Ly’chuk from ten steps away. The stone figure 
looked scarcely worn; his ebon’stone carapace healed as fast as it was damaged. 
And now he had developed a new defense: Any weapon, heartstone or otherwise, 
melted to slag before it could touch his ebon’stone surface. He was impossible 
to harm. He no longer even paid attention to the war around him.
His focus instead was downward. Where he stood, the floor was darker than black, 
a color that was the void of light. It was as if he floated in empty air. Elena 
suspected that once the corruption here was complete, the darkness would open a 
portal to the heart of the world.
That must not happen.
She and Tol’chuk stepped out across the dark floor. Around them, d’warf armies 
held ready as skirmishes raged around the cavern.
Ly’chuk frowned at the pair. “A parley, is it? Seeking a truce?”
Elena held up both hands, revealing her ruby fingers and palms. She spoke 
boldly. “I offer you one last chance to forsake this purpose!”
The black frown deepened, then relaxed as laughter flowed.
“You should listen to her,” Tol’chuk intoned.
He began to turn away, a whale ignoring a minnow.
“I will show you what I can do!” Elena said.
°
He glanced back, one black eyebrow rising.
She waved her hands before her and hummed under her breath. Aunt Fila floated 
through her and up her arms to hover over her fingertips. She danced atop there 
and wailed a death cry.
With the figure’s attention focused on her aunt, Harlequin flew through the air, 
tossed from behind her by two of Tyrus’ pirates. The small man somersaulted 
through the apparition with a tinkle of bells. Two daggers with ruby blades flew 
from his fingers and impaled themselves into the stone figure’s startled, fiery 
eyes.
Ly’chuk screamed, holding his head.
From behind, Wennar flung an ax with both arms. It flew end over end and struck 
the figure clean in the back. Distracted by the frontal assault, Ly’chuk’s 
attention had wavered enough for the thick blade to penetrate his guard.
As the ax fell away, Sy-wen was already there, running fleet-footed past the 
back of the stone figure. Something tiny flew from her fingertips. It spun 
through the air and shot into the cleaved crack before the ebon’stone could 
heal. A stunner, she had called it. The small starfishlike crustacean bore a 
painful stinger with the strength to stun a giant rockshark.
Ly’chuk trembled on his legs, then let out a ghastly scream, falling to his 
knees.
“Now!” Er’ril yelled.
Archers from all around the chamber let fly a barrage of arrows, ruby streaks 
through the air. The impacts sounded like the strike of crystal chimes. Feathers 
festooned the figure: head, limbs, torso.
Before Ly’chuk could rally against so many different assaults, his entire form 
turned to bright heartstone.
Tol’chuk had already leaped from Elena’s side with the first twang of bowstring. 
He rushed now at the figure with his hammer raised high. Ebon’stone might resist 
ordinary weapons, but heartstone was like any gem, easily cut with ordinary 
hammer and chisel.
Tol’chuk’s slammed his sledge toward the heartstone figure.
Elena sensed movement overhead. Aunt Fila swirled down, eyes bright with stars 
and empty spaces. “No!” Cho wailed.
The hammer struck home with a shattering crystalline note.
The noise became a physical wave, exploding outward, taking all light and sound 
with it. Elena felt a tug; then a strangely familiar burning sensation spread 
all over her body.
She blinked; then her vision returned. She stood alone on the floor of
°
Wi’t‘ch Star the chamber. Everyone and everything was shoved back to the walls, 
even ceilings. She turned to see d’warves, men, monsters, bones, all pinned to 
the stone, impossibly held in place. What was holding them?
A tingling passed over her. She stared down at herself. She was naked. Her body, 
her limbs… all glowed ruby red, whorling in darker tides of crimson. Cho had 
fused with her again, as when she floated inside the Weir.
Elena’s eyes widened with horror. She felt the familiar pressure on her ears. 
She was in the Weir again, inside a well of Chi’s spiritual energy. She didn’t 
know whether to be glad or worried.
She stared toward where the Dark Lord had once stood.
Amid a scatter of ruby shards lay a pale, naked figure, more skeleton than 
anything. Ly’chuk—or what was left of him. Then a slow horror filled her. She 
spun in a circle. The silver floor—the entire confluence— had gone black.
As she gasped, the pressure suddenly popped in her ears. Cries reached her from 
all around as folk tumbled to the floor. Bones rained down. She crouched, half 
hiding her nakedness, still ruby from head to toe.
Folk picked themselves up, bewildered, searching out weapons. But they weren’t 
needed.
The bone army, smashed against the walls as Chi burst from his broken vessel, 
remained just scattered skulls and broken shards. The magick was gone, as was 
the dark whorl across the roof. Skal’tum took wing, flying toward the tunnel 
openings.
Er’ril appeared at her side. He held a cloak, but he didn’t seem to know if it 
was safe to approach her. She ran a hand through her hair, relieved that she 
still had hair. It was burned shorter, but still present.
Suddenly a cool sensation swept over her, chilling her and raising gooseflesh. 
Mists wafted from her body and formed the azure figure of Cho again. Elena 
stared back down at herself as Er’ril rushed forward. Her skin was pale again, 
even her hands. She pulled into the cloak.
“The floor’s gone black,” Joach said, his face full of concern, his eyes on the 
pale creature in the room’s center. “Were we too late?”
Cho turned back to them. “It is Chi.”
“He’s free, isn’t he?” Elena asked.
Cho nodded, but her normally stoic expression was wide with fear. “He’s gone to 
kill your world.”
As THE OTHERS BEGAN TO GATHER, Er’rIL TOOK ElENA IN HIS ARMS. “WHAT
do you mean Chi has gone to kill the world?“ he asked the ghostly figure of Cho.
Elena reached a hand to him. He grasped her fingers, snowy white. It was strange 
to see her without the Rose. She seemed fragile, like porcelain.
Cho scanned the room. Her gaze focused on the pale and skeletal figure half 
curled on the black floor. One hand scrabbled weakly, all bone and withered 
flesh. “Chi has gone to finish this one’s dar’t will.”
Er’ril drew out his sword. “So the Dark Lord still controls him.” He stepped 
from Elena’s side, intent to end this now.
‘Wo,“ Cho warned. ”He is free of this creature’s bondage, and is now ruled by 
madness. He goes blindly, lashing out like a wild beast.“ Cho flew up from the 
floor. ”1 must go to him, draw him bac’t.“
Elena stepped after her. “Can you stop him?”
Cho stared back at her for a moment. Then her words repeated softly: “/ must go 
to him.” With a flume of moonlight, the spirit flew high, then shot like a 
silver arrow down toward the floor and through its dark surface, vanishing away.
Er’ril returned to Elena’s side. “Do you still have the Blood Diary?” she asked.
He patted his own cloak as answer. She nodded and leaned against him.
By now, Joach and others joined them. All had heard the spirit’s words. Their 
faces were grim. Nearby, Tol’chuk crossed toward the feeble figure of his 
ancestor. He still bore his hammer.
Tyrus spoke, clutching a silver coin in his palm. “I was able to link with
Xin. The black monster guarding Blackhall died. The stronghold has fallen.“ He 
turned to Sy-wen, who stood with Kast, and Nee’lahn with Meric. ”Hunt and the 
children made it back to the Dragonsheart. They’re all fine.“
Both Sy-wen and Nee’lahn wore matching expressions of relief.
Tyrus turned back to Er’ril. “And I’ve sent a scouting party toward the pit to 
make sure the fighting has ended here, too.”
Nodding, Er’ril surveyed the dark chamber. The only light came from the spear of 
moonlight shining down from the hole in the cavern roof, and even this was 
fading as the full face of the moon set toward the horizon. Torches began to 
flare around the room. The wounded and dying were tended. Across the way, he 
spotted Fardale, in wolf form, mourning the death of Thorn and his brother.
“Did we win?” Joach asked quietly, leaning on his staff.
No one had an answer.
Wennar marched up, his armor stained and bloody. He took off his helmet and ran 
a hand over his bald pate. “The tunnel to Blackhall is gone.” He waved a hand to 
the far wall. Some of the other passage mouths remained, but the one through 
which the d’warf army had entered was now solid granite.
“The dark magick linking the caverns has ended,” Er’ril mumbled. “Whether due to 
the setting moon or the breaking of the Dark Lord, it’s over.
Meric stood with Nee’lahn. “Our magick, too. At least on this black lake, our 
powers are severed.”
Er’ril frowned. “Maybe we should—”
The ground trembled, silencing his words. The tremor shook rock dust from the 
roof.
“Maybe we should leave,” Harlequin suggested, his eyes searching the stone 
overhead.
The shaking calmed, but not the expressions of worry.
Er’ril nodded. “I think Harlequin is right.”
The small man lifted one eyebrow. “Now that’s something you don’t hear every 
day, the plainsman actually agreeing with me. Maybe it is the end of the world.”
Er’ril sighed, realizing he owed the master spy many apologies. But such matters 
could wait until later. “For now, we should help the wounded and be ready to 
depart as soon as possible.”
Nods answered him. Kast, Wennar, and Tyrus went to see to the injured and gather 
up their remaining forces.
Er’ril turned to Elena. “I can’t go,” she said softly, her gaze intent on the 
black floor. “Not until Cho returns.”
Another slight tremble shivered through the cavern. He pulled her into his arms 
and felt the same shiver in her.
“Cho will rein her brother in,” he assured her.
“And if she doesn’t?” Elena whispered.
Er’ril sighed. “We will face whatever comes together.”
He thought his words would comfort her, but instead, she seemed to withdraw. His 
heart ached. “Elena, what’s wrong?” he whispered.
She simply stared across the dark floor, silent and alone.
As THE GROUND TREMBLED, Tol’cHUK STOOD OVER THE GAUNT, PALE CREA-
ture, unsure why he came. It surely deserved no pity, no mercy, no final 
kindness. It was hard to tell that what lay here was even once an og’re. Its 
spine was twisted, its legs no more than feeble twigs. The very bones of its 
skull shone through the translucent skin.
Still, he dropped to his knees and set aside his hammer. Eyes, large in the 
starved face, followed him as he sank to the floor.
They stared at one another, the beginning and end of a bloodline.
Again Tol’chuk wondered why he was here. He was satisfied that though they 
shared the same blood, his heart was his own. He stared. The rage had dimmed in 
the other’s eyes. Ly’chuk was scant heartbeats from death. Even the strongest 
corruption could find nothing to grasp in such tenuous life.
A clawed hand moved in his direction, but it was too weak to reach him.
Though there was no pleading in the other’s eyes, Tol’chuk reached and took the 
hand into his own. Again… why} A single word. What did he need here?
But fingers tightened on his own, one flesh touching another, recognizing life 
in its last moment.
Tol’chuk shifted closer. He had not been able to comfort his own father in 
death, slain in one of the senseless og’re wars. He remembered back to his own 
childhood, seeing his father’s prone body dragged past, speared through the 
chest. But they had been no closer in life than in death. His father, embittered 
by the loss of his mate and burdened with a half-breed son, had left Tol’chuk 
long before he was dragged bloody past their hearth.
Tol’chuk sighed. He now understood what drew him here. He needed this final act 
of forgiveness, not to ease Ly’chuk’s passing, but to free his own heart.
Fingers tightened again on his own. The weak figure must have sensed the pain in 
his heart. Words whispered from thin lips. Tol’chuk had not known Ly’chuk had 
the strength to speak.
“I… I never saw my son,” he gasped weakly.
Tol’chuk recalled the og’re’s earlier tale. Ly’chuk had fathered a son, but it 
was on the day of his son’s birth that he had been punished by the Land.
Fingers clasped to his with all the last strength in the feeble body. “See 
yours…”
Between their fingers, a jolt passed into Tol’chuk, shooting up his arm and into 
the core of his being. It was a burn both icy and searing. It settled low into 
his belly, then dissolved into a warmth that spread through his loins.
Tol’chuk felt the healing deep in his being.
He stared down at Ly’chuk, unmoving now, eyes gone glassy in death. He held the 
hand a moment longer, knowing with certainty what had been done. A final gift. 
Ly’chuk had passed whatever magick had healed his own loins into Tol’chuk.
See yours…
Tol’chuk understood the act, sensed for a flickering moment the heart behind it. 
This last gift was not Ly’chuk’s attempt to extend his bloodline, but to give 
Tol’chuk a chance to start a new one, a bloodline started from an act of 
kindness and forgiveness. He lowered the thin hand to the other’s chest. Be at 
peace.
Elena stared across the black floor. With the trembling of the ground, she knew 
all was not over. From deep in her heart, the warning of Sisa’kofa rose to haunt 
her again. She remembered the shadow of the wit’ch floating before the Spirit 
Stone: You will face a choice, a cusp of prophecy. Your choosing will either 
damn or save all.
“What’s wrong?” Er’ril asked again.
She shook her head, sworn to secrecy. This fate was hers alone.
“Tell me, please.”
She turned to him, drawn by the pain in his voice. In the storm of those gray 
eyes, she saw his love, his willingness to sacrifice all to hold her safe. Could 
she do any less?
“Please…” His voice was a strangled whisper. He stepped closer to her. A hand 
rose to cup her cheek.
She closed her eyes, but it did no good. His touch burned. She could hear him 
breathing, heavy with his own fear. Her heart ached. Somewhere deep inside her 
something broke. What was the need for secrets any longer? She opened her eyes 
and let her fear shine more fully. “Er’ril—”
A violent quake cut off her words. A section of roof cracked. They both leaped 
back as a slab of rock crashed to the floor. Men and d’warves scattered. No one 
was injured.
“What’s happening?” Joach asked, his staff ready.
This time the ground did not quiet. It continued to shake in fits and jolts. New 
cracks skittered over the arch of the roof and along the floors.
“We have to leave,” Er’ril said, grabbing Elena’s arm. “Now!”
Kast came running up as a horn sounded. He had to yell to be heard above the 
rumblings. “Wennar sounds the rally! We’re ready to go!”
Er’ril waved him back. “Then go! Get everyone out of here! We’ll follow!” As 
Kast swung off, Er’ril turned back to Elena. He clearly read her indecision. His 
grip tightened on her arm. “Cho can reach us on the surface as easily as here.”
Joach stood nearby, shifting from foot to foot. “He’s right, El.”
She glanced between the two of them, then nodded.
But before they could take a single step, the ground bucked under them, throwing 
them to their hands and knees. Rocks crashed all around. Were they too late ?
Then a silvery swirl shook up from the ground, as if expelled by the shaking. 
Elena sat back on her heels, gazing up as the figure coalesced into a familiar 
shape. “Cho?”
“No… it’s Fila.” The figure crouched. Her face was lined with concern, her eyes 
shadowed with fear. Under them, the ground calmed, but a deep rumbling 
persisted, thunder in the depths of the world. “Cho still attempts to sway her 
brother.”
“What’s happening?” Er’ril asked.
Aunt Fila shook her head. “It’s certain doom. Chi recognizes his sister, but he 
raves. I touched his mind—it is chaos and madness.”
“Why?” Joach asked. “What’s happened to him?”
Moonstone lips grew hard. “These spirits are not like us. They were meant to 
roam the Void between stars. But Chi has spent over five centuries trapped in 
those cursed gates, corrupted. What is left is less than animal, a deep rage 
that intends to burn through all.”
“What can be done to stop him?” Elena asked, eyes wide.
Aunt Fila’s eyes settled on her own. “There is one way.”
Elena felt an icy knot form in her chest.
io
“What is it?” Er’ril asked.
“Cho can merge with Chi.”
Joach leaned closer. “Will she be able to control him?”
The two men looked on hopefully, but Aunt Fila’s gaze never left Elena. She 
answered her brother’s question. “Cho intends to destroy her brother… and 
herself.” Elena remembered those times when her raw magick touched pure Chyric 
energy. The result was instantaneous and explosive.
Aunt Fila elaborated. “Their two energies are opposite in all ways. They cannot 
exist in the same space. To merge will create a magickal blast that will consume 
them both.”
“There must be another way,” Elena mumbled.
Her aunt sighed, and her voice dropped lower. “Chi is in pain beyond imagining, 
and his agony is now Cho’s. She knows there is no way to ease or undo what’s 
been done. She’s tried. Chi is not just twisted… he’s broken in all ways. He 
will ravage our world, turn our garden into a desert, then move on to others. 
Cho knows there is only one path to peace for her brother.”
“Then let her do it,” Er’ril said, “before it’s too late.”
His urgency was confirmed by another violent shake and shattering rockfalls.
Kast called from across the room. “Er’ril!” The Bloodrider stood near the tunnel 
to the pit, flanked by ToPchuk and Wennar. Almost all had cleared out. D’warves 
fled at a determined run, many with shields slung between them, carrying the 
wounded.
“Go!” Er’ril ordered. “Get to the pit!”
Kast clearly hesitated, but then nodded and waved Wennar ahead of him.
During this exchange, Aunt Fila’s eyes never left hers. “I would speak a moment 
with Elena.”
Er’ril bunched his shoulders, ready to refuse, but Elena touched his arm. “Go. 
The longer we argue, the shorter our time.”
Er’ril stared at her hard, his jawline iron. But she held steadfast. Go, her 
heart cried, go before I no longer have the strength.
He finally snapped away, stalking back several steps, cloak swirling. Joach went 
with him.
Swallowing hard, she turned back to her aunt. “Tell me,” Elena whispered, ready 
for the worst—but what her aunt said next shocked her to the marrow.
“The Spirit Stone. It’s already been destroyed.” Elena paled. “What?”
“It happened so fast,” Fila said, her eyes suddenly lost. “The brightness blew 
out of the crystal heart of the world, snuffed like a candle in a windstorm.”
“So the world is doomed.”
“Not doomed. The living heart pumped elemental energy throughout the lands. Like 
a body whose heart has ceased to beat, the blood still remains. Elemental 
energies will continue for now, but their potency will fade over the next 
several decades, perhaps as long as centuries, until eventually all magick will 
be gone.”
Elena found it hard to breathe. “So the Dark Lord has won after all?”
“Don’t think that way. If he had vanquished the Land, he would have created the 
world in his twisted image. He would have done to the lands what he did to Chi.” 
The apparition shuddered. “I would rather the world were destroyed instead.”
Elena fought back her despair. “Then what can we do? What will happen after Cho 
and Chi merge?”
Again Aunt Fila sighed. “The magickal blast will be cataclysmic. It will be a 
force a thousandfold stronger than either spirit alone. Something must be done 
with that magick.”
“What?” Her voice was a squeak.
“Remember you are blood-tied to Cho. As the magick explodes outward, the energy 
will flow through the bridge back to you, Elena. For a brief moment, you will 
have control over this vast well of power.” Elena sat frozen. “No…”
“Yes. And you will face two choices.”
Unbidden, her head began shaking. It was Sisa’kofa’s prophecy fulfilled. Aunt 
Fila continued to speak. “The energy will need a vessel. One choice is to keep 
the magick for yourself.”
Elena recalled her hard struggle with her own wild magick, to balance the wit’ch 
inside her. To have the wit’ch a thousandfold stronger … “I couldn’t… I can’t…”
Aunt Fila nodded. “It is a hard choice. It would burn away your body. You would 
become like Chi or Cho, living spiritual energy.” Elena could not fathom such an 
existence.
“The other choice lies under your own feet. The empty Spirit Stone.” Hope 
flared. “I could revive the Land with this magick?”
“Yes, but it is too small a cup. The amount of energy far surpasses what the 
Spirit Stone once held. It would be like a man being hit by lightning. Such a 
jolt would reshape the world. Our world would end. A new one would begin, as 
vital as this one, but vastly changed.”
“So I either become a god, or I start our world anew.” She stared over to 
Er’ril. He watched from a distance, his gaze hard upon her. No matter what her 
choice, down either path, she would lose this man who held her heart so 
tenderly. How could she choose?
And then there was the warning from Sisa’kofa to consider, a prophecy handed 
down through the centuries: / have come to tell you that your choice—either 
way—will doom all.
Aunt Fila spoke. “But there may be another path, a way to avoid all of this.”
Elena turned from Er’ril back to the moonstone spirit. Her eyes pleaded for some 
way to escape this fate.
“The Blood Diary,” her aunt said. “It is Cho’s link to you, to this world. 
Without it, she exists only in the Void.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The book is necessary to hold Cho here so she can merge with Chi, but once this 
is done, you can sever the link. By breaking the connection to this world, the 
energies will be released into the Void rather than through you.
“So I wouldn’t have to make a choice!”
“Exactly. If you destroy the Blood Diary at the precise moment Cho and Chi fuse, 
then the energies will have no connection here and will dissipate into the vast 
emptiness beyond.”
Elena’s heart surged. Sisa’kofa had said there would be another choice! Here it 
was! Her voice sharpened. “What must I do?”
“I will help you. I will let you know when to destroy the Blood Diary, but you 
must not hesitate. It must be done perfectly.” She nodded. “How do I destroy the 
book?”
“That’s the easy part. You’ve held that power all along.” She motioned for Elena 
to lift her hands. Aunt Fila covered Elena’s right hand between her two ghostly 
palms. “In this hand is wit’ch fire.” Her right hand went ruby with a fresh 
Rose, ignited by the spiritual energy. “And in this hand is coldfire,” her aunt 
said, quickening her left.
Once done, Aunt Fila put her moonstone palms together, opening them like a book 
between Elena’s two hands.
“And between them lies stormfire,” Elena finished. “I can destroy the book by 
unleashing both magicks simultaneously.”
A nod of satisfaction. “You must be bloodied, readied, and standing in the 
center of the confluence. Then act immediately upon my signal. Can you do that?”
Elena considered the alternative. “I won’t fail.”
Aunt Fila smiled and sighed. “Then prepare yourself. Cho already calls Chi to 
her.” The figure faded back into the black floor, trailing a whisper, full of 
love. “Your mother would’ve been proud.” Then she was gone.
Er’ril was instantly at her side with Joach. He eyed her ruby hands. “What’s 
happening?”
It was too much to explain in too short a time. She held out a red palm and 
spoke hurriedly. “I need the Blood Diary.”
He caught the edge of her urgency and pulled open his cloak, tugging the tome 
from a pocket. The gilt rose still shone brightly, though dimmer as the moon set 
in the skies far above. He held the book out to her.
“What are you going to do with it?” Joach asked.
She slipped out her wit’ch dagger and sliced a deep gash in her palms. She was 
not taking any chances in the flows of her magick. “The book must be destroyed,” 
she told them.
Joach opened his mouth. Elena met his eyes. He shook his head and closed his 
mouth, taking a step back. But his eyes remained wounded.
She knew what hopes he held between the covers of this book. After this was 
over, she’d find a way to help him. She took the book. “Get everyone far back,” 
she warned. She didn’t want anyone caught in the magickal backwash as she 
unleashed her stormfire. Across the room, only a handful of others still 
remained. She spotted Meric and Nee’lahn, Kast and Sy-wen, Tol’chuk and Tyrus.
Er’ril waved them all back, but he stayed a moment longer. “Elena?”
She met his gaze. “I must do this alone.” She walked backward toward the room’s 
center. The ground shook again, vibrating through her legs.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“And I you.” It was too hard to see him. Her heart ached when it needed to be at 
its strongest. He seemed to sense this and took a step away, retreating with 
Joach.
In his face now, she didn’t see a knight or guardian or liegeman, simply a man 
who loved her, and feared for her. His eyes bored into her, as if willing her 
safe. But he knew he could not walk this next path with her.
Tears welling, she turned away. She could look no longer. She hurried to the 
center of the dark confluence and stepped into the column of moonshine. She 
clutched the book tighter and held her breath. The ground shook again, showering 
rock dust from the roof.
M
I’m ready, she whispered.
As if hearing her, the floor under her suddenly grew darker. It started in the 
center and welled outward. Gasps arose.
Elena stared down between her toes. A glassy well had opened under her, a 
darkness veined with streaks of crimson. She had seen such a view before, 
through the Spirit Gate. It was the center of the world. But the crystalline 
heart no longer shone. Illuminated by two bright wisps that swirled around it, 
the stone was dark, empty of whatever had once given it life.
Words reached her from the depths of this well. Elena… the time comes…
She lifted the Diary, reaching to her magick, blooming it bright in her hands. 
She felt the mix of fire and ice.
Down below, the dance of wisps grew wilder. Spinning and whirling, the blend of 
light became a cloud, shining with a clarity that spoke of life beyond 
existence.
Elena did not breathe. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Such beauty could not exist. It did not belong in this plane of reality.
Then a flash of brilliance destroyed all. The concussion lit the entire well. 
Elena’s cloak and hair billowed as something passed through her from below.
Now! The single note rang through her being.
With a gasp, Elena unleashed all her magick into the book between her palms. 
Wit’ch fire and coldfire fused into a violence as brilliant as below. Magicks 
ripped into the binding, the ancient spell, the pages. But, tied to her magick, 
she knew her mistake.
She stared into her hands with horror. Sand fell from between her palms. Sand… 
It had not been the Blood Diary, but mere illusion.
Her eyes lifted as she spun around. “Joach!”
Across the way, her brother fell to his knees. Their eyes met for a fraction of 
a heartbeat—then the blast wave of magicks struck her, carrying her away.
Er’ril lunged forward with Elena’s scream. But up from below, a vast shaft of 
light blazed forth, encompassing the entire floor. A force came with it. He was 
lifted off his feet and thrown against the wall, pinned in place. For this 
moment, the confluence again turned silver before him, blinding all in its 
brilliance. An immense pressure crushed outward. It threatened to tear the 
spirit from his body. He felt his moorings stretched and strained.
Such a force could not be contained, not even by this vast room.
He felt something give—not in himself, but in the world.
The pressure popped, and he slid down the wall, crumpling to the stone floor 
along with the others. All around, their faces were masks of fear.
Tol’chuk was the first to regain his feet. He gaped upward. Others followed the 
direction of his gaze. The roof of the cavern was gone—not crashed down, simply 
gone, vanished. Far above, a cloud-streaked night sky shone upon them. Stars 
glowed. The silver face of the full moon had fallen halfway down the sky.
Meric spoke into the stunned quiet. His words sounded muffled, as if heard 
through water. “Where’s Elena?”
Er’ril had no answer. The floor had gone black again. Elena was gone, vanished 
as surely as the roof overhead. He fell upon Joach. “What did you do?” He had 
meant his words to be fierce, but they came out a scream of rage. “What did you 
do?”
Joach faced the plainsman’s wrath. He had no choice — he could not get his legs 
to move. He knelt where he had fallen, head hanging. He barely saw the others. 
His mind’s eye was still full of Elena’s face as she had swung toward him. Then… 
then she was gone. He had seen the blast of magick eat her away, consuming her 
in a heartbeat from below.
He covered his face. He had killed her. His grief was beyond tears.
“What did you do?” Er’ril grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his 
feet. He was thrown against the wall again, not by magickal forces, but by 
simple fury.
Joach fumbled into his cloak and pulled out the Blood Diary. “I couldn’t…” Words 
died.
Er’ril snatched the book, releasing him. Joach slumped to the ground.
“For this?” Er’ril yelled. “You sacrificed your sister for this!”
He kept his head hung. It was too heavy. His heart was a boulder in his chest, 
squeezing his breath, dragging him to the ground.
“Look at it!” Er’ril tore open the covers and waved it before his face. “You 
slew her for no reason.”
Joach didn’t understand. Then he saw the pages inside. They were covered with 
lines and lines of pigeon-scratched ink. The Void was gone.
“It’s my brother’s diary, returned again.” This last was spoken as a sob. Er’ril 
sank to his knees before Joach. The fury had burned away, leaving only grief. He 
flung the book away. “The magick is gone. Whatever you sought is gone.”
i
Both men knew what this meant. Elena was truly dead.
Er’ril stared at him, his eyes moist. “Why?”
Joach shook his head. There was no answer to the plainsman’s question. He could 
not explain it himself. Something dark lurked in his heart. It had started as 
love, but grief and pain and power and pride had blackened it, soured it. It had 
led him to betray those who truly loved him, while he chased after phantoms.
He stared at Er’ril, but he no longer saw him. He saw Elena. Beyond the anguish 
and despair in her eyes in that last moment, he had seen something else, 
something that pained him even more: understanding and love.
Joach closed his eyes… and his heart.
His sister was gone.
Cascades of light rolled like storm seas, surging through the vast nothing-ness… 
Stars spun in a dance that defied time but also defined it…
She rolled amid the chaos and symmetry. She was too large, too vast. None could 
see her.
… small spares zipped in furious clouds around a tiny heart … Fundamental forces 
played within the core, blurring where energy ended and substance began… One 
iota bonded to another and another, forming a single bit of granite.
She sailed amid simplicity and complexity. She was a mote in the substrata of 
life. None knew she was there, not even herself.
As she stretched between the vast and the insignificant, a small corner of 
consciousness remained.
/ am, she thought.
Power sailed through her, expanding her farther outward and more inward. Would 
she ever stop flowing? Was there no end to existence? As she grew smaller, form 
turned to energy. As she grew larger, energy took form. She named this stretch 
of nothingness: Void. She filled this Void, fueled by energy that silvered over 
her and scintillated through her.
From nothingness, she was born and now had returned.
All else was mere Substance.
As she pondered her new perspective, a voice reached her. Elena.
She named this other in turn, knowing it as she knew herself. Cho.
A swirl of moonlight answered her. The time is at hand, Elena. I am at an end, 
already ended. You must choose the world or yourself.
Identity filled in the corners of her consciousness. And with it came memory. / 
must not, she answered. / must not choose.
c’tn
The other faded. Then the choice will be made for you. You will continue to 
swell through the Void, becoming the harmony that is nothingness. You must 
choose.
Elena felt a flicker of fear at these words. Ancient warnings rang in her ears. 
And a cautionary retort:
to your heart. hoo’t to the friends you love. Find your own path out of the 
darkness— A path that none but you will see.
These thoughts echoed through her, and her desire became reality. Elena stood in 
a chamber open to the sky. Others gathered near. None saw her. She was wrapped 
in raging gales of ghostfire, flaming over her form. She floated a span above a 
black floor.
She watched two men fight, then both collapse to knees.
Loo’t to your heart.
Elena named these men, for they were in her heart. Joach… and Er’ril.
Loo’t to the friends you love.
She turned to the others. She knew them, too. She saw them at all the levels of 
existence, from solid substance down to nothingness. But between those two 
states, there existed a silvery energy, their lifeforces. Some flared brighter, 
more elemental to this basic energy. Others less so. Still, one and all, they 
shone with such beauty.
But one of them drew her attention back.
Er’ril.
He filled her heart and sight. He had saved her once before, drawn her back with 
his touch and love. But the power here was too great. He could not save her this 
time.
Find your own path out of the darkness.
Here she must indeed go alone. She stared at all of them again, frozen in a 
place without time. She saw the traceries of lifeforce, winding among them and 
outward. She reached a filament of her own energy and touched a vibrating 
thread.
Then she was away and everywhere at once. That which was consciousness spread in 
all directions along a silvery web of energy. Before, when in her body, she had 
been too weak and confined. She had barely brushed the immensity of what lay 
beyond. But no longer. As with the Void, she expanded out from this single 
thread and into the web that composed life. She swelled into its myriad shapes 
and forms, its senses
i and textures. Voices filled her head. Lives ended and were born again, while 
new buds of lifeforce grew along the web, stretching out. She raced throughout 
this complexity, appreciating its simplicity. She stared down at its looming 
vastness and up through the faceted eyes of a single ant.
She knew what she was seeing, the antithesis to the Void, but the same. A 
vastness untapped. She knew her answer then. She knew her path.
She sailed from the web, from the room, from the world. But all the while, she 
trailed a cord of her own energy, a shining wake of ghostfire that led back to 
this living web.
From a place near the moon, Elena hovered. Energy continued to flow into her. 
There was no escaping it, only releasing it. She was a font of incalculable 
magick. The choice was to keep it herself and ascend into the vastness of the 
Void, or send it down into the hollow heart of the world, giving the energy to 
that which was Substance, starting a new world. But she now saw a third choice. 
A path none but you will see. She took all the blasted energy of two spirits 
into herself, tying it in the skies over the world while still maintaining a 
cord to the lifeweb below. She spent an indeterminate amount of time in the 
boundary between both Void and Substance, balancing the tidal waves of power, 
matching the ebbs and flows.
She acted and responded with instinct. But a part of her understood. The energy 
tied here would flow its magicks equally along the web. Once the Land finished 
its slow death, there would be no elementals versus ordinary folk. There would 
be no mages, wit’ches, or Dark Lords. Rather than the few surpassing the many, 
each and every living thing would be granted its own magick, its own unique 
talent. Maybe each gift wouldn’t be as strong as before, distributed and diluted 
throughout all life, but maybe it was as Ly’chuk had dreamed, time to end 
magick’s rule of their world and destiny. Maybe it was time for them to forge 
their own path.
Elena finished her work, then glided down the silvery trail. She was spent, 
falling, and empty. Without the rage of magick inside her, her identity 
sharpened and focused back to herself. She stared up at the well of magick above 
her, glowing in the skies, feeding a constant flow of magick into the web of 
life below. She was amazed at her handiwork, but her knowledge of its creation 
was already fading. Her consciousness now was too small to encompass the vast 
enlightenment necessary to have birthed this new star.
She sank back to the world, back to the web, back to the roofless cavern. She 
continued to study the twinkle of the star. As long as it shone, as long as its 
well of energy lasted, the magicks of the land would be balanced in all things, 
making each person equal to another. Though such talents would be smaller—such 
as the gift of sculpting clay, or an aptitude for baking, or an ability to 
understand another’s heart—each life would have its own unique and special gift, 
free to be recognized and nurtured or simply ignored.
From this night onward, all would be equal.
Elena stared around the room. There would be only one exception. As she touched 
the floor, a magick that she had prearranged ignited. With no conscious 
awareness of how it was done, she unfolded herself from the stream of energy, 
drawing her consciousness fully back to herself. She stepped out of nothingness 
and crossed back into the world, no longer a god, no longer even a wit’ch, 
simply a woman.
Senses of the world overwhelmed her: the heat on her skin, the smell of 
brimstone and rain, the voices raised in surprise, the swirl of colors and 
lights. The world was too bright. She gasped and swooned, surprised at the 
intensity of sensations.
Then he was there, holding her, filling all her senses. “Er’ril…” she whispered. 
She stared at him: the storm-gray of his eyes, the planes of his face, the 
single tear rolling down a stubbled cheek. He filled her.
“Elena!” He sobbed her name, pulling her tight.
She closed her eyes and sank into him. She sheltered in his arms, giving herself 
time to settle. She was like a basin of water, shaken and rocked. She needed a 
moment for her spirit to calm and reseat itself in her body.
He held her.
When she felt ready to face the new world, she pulled up and opened her eyes. 
Others gathered around: Tol’chuk and Harlequin, Meric and Nee’lahn, Kast and 
Sy-wen, Tyrus and Wennar, even Fardale in his wolf form.
The world was still too bright. The first rays of sunlight shone down into the 
chamber.
“The star… ?” Meric asked, dropping to a knee. “Was that your doing?”
Elena nodded. So it hadn’t been a dream. She searched the skies, but dawn had 
come and bathed the stars away. Still, she felt its glow beyond the horizon. She 
knew it would shine again this night. A new star.
“A Wit’ch Star,” Meric said. This name echoed among the others, some with 
amusement, some with awe.
“What does it signify?” Nee’lahn asked.
Elena sighed, not ready to talk about that yet. She still had one last duty. She 
kissed Er’ril, a brief brush that promised a lifetime more, and
O
stood. She crossed to the lone figure in the shadows by the wall. She stood in 
sunlight while he hid in darkness. He would not meet her face.
“Joach,” she whispered. “It’s all right.” Deep in her heart, she touched a 
magick still locked there. The Wit’ch Star would eventually balance and level 
the magick of the world and make each person equal to another. But there would 
be one exception. She opened her heart and sailed this gift into her brother. 
She sensed he would need it—maybe not the way he had originally intended, but a 
necessity nonetheless.
She passed the gift of immortality into him. His body jerked with the touch. His 
face lifted, with both surprise and horror. She tied the magick to his silvery 
lifeforce. As the connection was made, their two energies mixed, spreading to 
the web beyond. For a scintillating moment, they were connected to all in the 
room. Each one’s story, thoughts, feelings swelled into them.
Joach gasped, crawling back, covering his face.
Then it was over. The gift had been passed.
Joach lowered his hands and stared up at her from his dark corner. “Wh-what have 
you done?”
What had to be… she thought silently, then whispered softly, “Whether curse or 
blessing, do with it what you want. But when the marching of years weighs too 
heavy, tell my story—tell my story true—and you will find your end.”
He stared at her with horror and disbelief. A pained laugh escaped his throat. 
He turned from her.
Elena stared down at him. How she longed to reach to him, but she didn’t. 
Instead she did the harder thing; she stepped back. A moment ago, she had been 
forced to find her own path out of darkness, a path that none but she could see. 
Now it was Joach’s turn. None could walk his path but himself.
She turned and faced the new world. She lifted her pale hands into the sunlight. 
They remained pure and white, a woman’s hands. She found Er’ril staring at her. 
She smiled back at him. Here was magick enough for anyone.
And so the story ends…
From that moment, everything changed. We all left the heights of Winter’s Eyrie 
and entered a new world, one forged within a ruby fist. But what became of us 
all? I can’t truly say. I can only tell my own tale.
Shame drove me west, past the mountains, past the Western Reaches out to the 
lands beyond the setting sun. On this road, Elena’s last gift to me, her 
immortality, proved to be true. I didn’t age. I lived countless lifetimes, but 
only the first ever mattered to me. And though I had enough life energy to 
revive Kesla, I found I didn’t have the will. I didn’t even try. I was not 
worthy of her love. She was better off wherever she now slept— whether in the 
sands of her desert home or in the Mother’s gentle arms.
Still, over time, even this choice was taken from me. My dreaming abilities 
faded, like all the strong magicks of the world. It took several generations, 
but slowly the world became a simpler and perhaps duller place. Under the glow 
of the Wit’ch Star, the og’res withdrew into their mountains, the mer’ai into 
their seas, and the elv’in clans were scattered, never to be found again.
Perhaps someday when the Wit’ch Star dies, magick will return again, surging 
into peaks and valleys, but for now, it is an age of mankind in all its glory 
and misery. I’ve seen golden times and dark pass me by, and still I walked the 
roads, seeking answers that were always inside me.
Now as I look back at the words I wrote at the beginning of this long tale, I 
see the anger in my heart. Elena had not cursed me, only given me the 
opportunity to walk down the dark path that I had started myself. It was a road 
too long to survive in the span of a single life. There were entire lifetimes of 
guilt, bitterness, and even madness to survive.
And I did survive, coming at last to the Isles of Kell off the Western Coast. It 
was as close to Alasea as I could ever bring myself. I had not the heart to walk 
its lands again, but I could not be far from it, either. So I lived these last 
centuries in Kell, a drifter among the islands, nameless so none would note my 
lack of aging.
I stare now at my wrinkled hands that move the quill, the weak scratching at the 
parchment, the gray hairs that fall like late winter’s snow upon the drying ink. 
Elena’s last promise to me has been fulfilled. In that last moment of communion 
with her, when I touched that silver web, all the stories of the others flowed 
into me. I packed them away in trunks and cupboards. I did not want to face them 
in that dark time.
Only after all these centuries did I dare open those secret places in my heart 
and face those memories, those many lives. I see now why Elena set this task 
before me, for in these pages, in these stories, I found myself. I saw my 
journey, not only through the bitter lens of my own heart, but through so many 
other eyes. And in that moment of clarity, as I finish this story, I finally can 
do what had escaped me for so many centuries.
/ can forgive myself.
Among these stories, I finally see that I was no better nor worse than my 
companions. We all had secrets, moments of ignominy and honor, cowardice and 
bravery—even Elena herself.
It is this knowledge that has finally broken the immortal spell. Elena had tied 
the magick to my heart’s guilt. And once this was absolved, the spell fell away.
At last I am free to pass to the Mother, as all good beings are allowed.
Even now, I sense a presence around me. Not the Mother, but something more 
intimate. Though there is no swirl of spirit nor dance of moonstone, I know 
someone stands with me. I can almost feel her breath on my cheek.
“Elena,” I whisper to the empty room.
And no words come, but I still sense some acknowledgment, a warmth in my heart. 
At the beginning of this tale, I told how I had described the wit’ch in 
countless ways: a buffoon, a prophet, a clown, a savior, a hero, and a villain. 
But in all the centuries, I never described her the way my heart knew her 
best—as my sister.
“What became of you and Er’ril?” I ask… because I never had before. “Did you 
live a long and happy life?”
Then came the barest whisper from across the ages, sad and joyful at the same 
time. We lived… That is all one can as1{.
I cannot stand it any longer. I cry. Tears fall upon the parchment. My heart 
breaks and re-forms into something new, unstained and full of love.
And though not even a shadow moves, I sense a hand held out toward me. I can 
wait no longer. This is the end of all, my life, my tale, my place in the world 
and ways of Alasea.
So let me set aside my pen. I have a hand to take.
The Final Question of Scholarship
Why are the Kehuth Scrolb banned?
—Answer this thesis below in ink and seal with a palm print -Do not break the 
seal on the next pages until you have shown your answer to your assigned 
proctor.
Afterword
Jlr’rob Sordun, D.F.S., M.A., Director of University Studies (U.D.B.)
Welcome, new scholars of the Commonwealth!
It is with great pleasure that I congratulate those who now read these pages. 
You have passed the final test and have been granted the crimson sash of 
graduation. As you are well aware, not all of your fellow students stand beside 
you. Many have walked the long road only to stumble at the very end. They have 
failed to answer the final question correctly.
Why have the texts been banned?
Of course, by the sashes you wear, you know with certainty the truth of your own 
answers, but it is just as important to know what others had written. There is a 
final lesson yet to be learned from those who were sent to the gallows of 
Au’tree.
For you see, the most common misconception of your failed brethren is to place 
too much power in the author of the Scrolls, the purported brother of Elena 
Morin’stal. They answered the final question by supposing that his words were 
indeed valid at the end, that magick would again return to the world with the 
dying of the Wit’ch Star. That is plainly absurd, a sure sign of a weak 
scholarly mind. They have clearly been duped and swayed by the insidious poison 
of the author.
No, of course, that is not the answer. The true danger of the text is found in 
Elena’s last supposed act: taking the magick and seeding it as special gifts 
throughout all lands, all peoples. As she says, “making each person equal.”
Here is the final and seductive treachery of the author.
Plainly, it is cruel to plant such delusions in some commoner working